Negative Halo 3
by CaptainRaspberry
Summary: Across the expanse of space the Covenant Civil War rages, but as the Separatists and Loyalists clash, several warriors will make the ultimate sacrifice for the future of the entire galaxy. The eyes of the Covenant will close forever...
1. Cleaning House

Chapter 1: Cleaning House

"Incoming!"

Maka 'Fulsamee instinctively ducked, three carbine rounds slamming into the wall where his head had been half a second before. He crouched with two other Elites and one of the humans behind a low barricade, their backs to the control room. A detonation shook their cover, from a Brute Shot grenade, the young Sangheili guessed.

They were trapped, defending the control room against Brute reinforcements while the Arbiter and the human commander conferred with the Oracle. There was something familiar about the Arbiter, the way he moved and spoke, that tickled the back of Maka's mind, but for the moment he found himself thoroughly distracted.

"You would believe killing their Chieftain would hamper their ability to fight," one of the Elites behind the barricade said, a crimson-armored Elite Major.

"Removing their brains sure will," the human replied. Maka found himself agreeing with the creature as he popped up from cover, sighted down his carbine, and fired three shots into the lead Brute's head. He dropped and the others dove for cover; the human rose just then and threw one of their curious explosives, the pear-shaped device landing behind one of the Jiralhanae cover spots. The entrenched group heard a shout of surprise followed by an explosion and cursing from the other side of the hallway.

Behind them another group of Elites rushed forward, plasma rifles blazing. One of them took shelter behind the barricade while the rest pressed forward, trying to force the Jiralhanae to backpedal and allow the Sangheili forces more room for cover. The Brutes did as expected, jumping back and retreating while firing, giving the remaining Elites time to move up out of the control room doorway.

"We have a plan," the new arrival said. "With the Arbiter's aid we shall take this structure and hold it until such a time as our own reinforcements can arrive."

The Major nodded, but Maka was still confused about something. "What of…?" He trailed off and inclined his head at the human, who had risen above the barrier again and was firing at the retreating Brutes with his own rifle.

"We are to… fight beside them," the newcomer said uncertainly. "The Arbiter and the human commander seem to have struck an accord."

All the Sangheili shifted with unease and gave furtive glances at the humans. The one behind the barrier was oblivious, but the others crouched in the control room doorway saw them and glared in return. There was bad blood there, and for good reason: the war between their species had raged for twenty-seven years to date, and suddenly they were caught in the same boat. Maka wasn't even sure what that boat was. Why had the Arbiter, after Tartarus was defeated, told them to withhold from attacking the humans?

_Those creatures have done nothing but fight for their species. _The Councilor's words came back unbidden. Maka looked away. He had never fought against the humans, never been deployed to the front lines. He had only graduated from Institution a few weeks ago and his ship had stopped over at High Charity, expecting to go to the human home world. Then the civil war had erupted, and he had gotten caught up in the bloodshed.

But he still felt the shame. The shame of his species… and the shame of his family. His father was at the human home world right then. His brothers, though he had never met them, were revered war heroes. Orna had been a Supreme Commander, last the family had heard, and Oriné had survived Halo. If the rumors were to be believed, however, he was dead on the surface of the human home world… but as a direct result of the actions of the Prophets, not the humans. His father may still be fighting above the world, or perhaps he had been shot down, or even already betrayed by the Brutes.

A chilling thought sent a shiver down Maka's spine. How far did this betrayal go? How deep did the schism run?

The Major peered over the barrier. "Move up!" he shouted to the soldiers and they did, quickly hurrying down the hallway, weapons raised. With the Elites and humans on the attack the Brutes were quickly forced back through the halls towards the original entry way. It was still burning from the Scarab's beam but offered unfortunately adequate cover for the Jiralhanae that had retreated. They scowled and shouted, firing carbines and red-colored plasma rifles at the momentary alliance of Sangheili and humans. It was a stalemate.

Just as Maka was contemplating a suicidal charge to draw out their foes a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and when he looked up he found himself staring into the eyes of a hero.

"Hold your place here, young one," the Arbiter's baritone voice rumbled. There was something so hauntingly familiar about him, buzzing about in Maka's mind, but beyond reach. He just stared numbly as the Arbiter nodded behind him and the human sergeant walked up, grinning devilishly and holding a beam rifle, the same Maka had given him just before the fight against Tartarus.

"Somethin' you want, lizard-man?" the human asked, looking at the Arbiter. Much to the surprise of all the Elites present, the Arbiter did not strike the human for his insolence. Instead he only motioned towards the hiding Brutes. Nodding, the dark-skinned human knelt down and aimed through the sights.

A moment later, one Brute poked his head out and immediately lost it, a steaming hole replacing the front of his face. There were several indignant cries and many weapons appeared, the Jiralhanae blind-firing from their positions. The human hardly flinched; he merely adjusted his sights and fired three consecutive shots, separating three hands from three arms. Brute screams filled the air.

Other humans followed up with grenades, throwing them and bouncing them off walls to get into the hiding spots. A solitary pair of heavy, uneven footsteps were heard retreating further into the burned foyer. The Elites gave chase.

When they emerged into the sunlight they saw the single Jiralhanae escapee, a badly burned and bloodied Major. He turned and snarled, raising a plasma rifle in his one good hand. Before he could depress the firing contact, however, there was a crashing noise as a Fuel Rod Cannon slammed into his back. The body flew in an arc, smacking noisily into the area above the doorway and flopping to the deck. Maka stared at the body before walking forward and peeking over the edge of the overhang; the Scarab was still there, as was the Hunter pair they had left on board. They nodded up to him, and he returned the gesture.

Turning around, he found the human sergeant staring up at him. There was a deep scowl on his face, accented by the visible age lines creasing his face. A pungent _thing _was stuck in his mouth, one end smoking and releasing a thick stink. With something like a chuckle he shoved the beam rifle into Maka's hands.

"Nice gun," he said simply before turning around and rejoining the other humans. Most of them were dressed in what was identifiably armor, but one, a female, was wearing something far less practical for prolonged fighting. A command outfit? Maka snorted. Females in command? How odd the humans could be.

The Sangheili warrior from before came up to him, touching his shoulder. "This is an odd victory," he said, looking over the bay towards the shore. Still smoking wreckage from several Banshees and a couple of Wraiths lay there, thin black trails spiraling upwards.

Maka could only nod, staring off in another direction. The carrier still hovered there, the Prophet of Truth's flagship _Purity of Spirit_; Commander 'Vadumee was supposed to be leading a charge onboard to take control of it. He briefly wondered how it was going.

Suddenly he realized that the Elite was staring at him. He rolled his shoulders nervously and said, "My name is Maka 'Fulsamee."

The other smiled. "N'tho 'Sraomee."

* * *

"Brace yourselves!"

The deck of the _Drowned in Honor _kicked beneath their hooves, a plasma torpedo striking one of the lower decks. For a moment the deck felt angled as the artificial gravity hiccupped, but a second later it restored itself.

Balask 'Zakamee shook his head and growled. "How is it the Flood know how to use our ships?"

Ship Master Gersha 'Kaeromee ignored him, focusing instead on the battle at hand: two Flood-controlled cruisers were nimbly working their way through the fleet, firing at ships and generally being a distraction. The golden-armored Elite looked at the monitor, scowling as he saw what it was they were trying to draw attention away from: a small fleet of infected dropships was making a beeline for High Charity.

He quickly signaled for an open communications channel to the entire fleet. "The Parasite seeks to catch us in its ruse! Burn its dropships before it can reach the holy city!" At his word several of the light cruisers in the area turned their weapons against the smaller ships, hurling waves of plasma at them. Quickly they were demolished, but the Sangheili fleet was once again set upon by the troublesome twin vessels.

A pulse laser volley slammed into the _Honor_'s shields, the deck rumbling. 'Kaeromee's own vocal chords rumbled with it. "They dare make a mockery of _me?!_" He activated the weapons channel. "Prepare our energy projector! We shall burn this Parasite with holy fire."

In one holographic display a charge meter appeared, slowly spinning up to full charge. When it was ready, he gave the order and a razor-thin lance of purple energy cut through the void and laterally sliced the offending cruiser in two. At first there was no reaction, but when the breached plasma reactor detonated it easily vaporized ninety percent of what remained. What was left was sent spinning off by the sheer force of the blast.

The lights flickered as their own reactor struggled to account for the missing energy before it was regenerated. Still, 'Kaeromee smiled: one ship down. Unfortunately, detecting the growing danger the other had taken shelter behind High Charity.

"Cowardly devils," 'Kaeromee growled.

"I would advise against giving chase, Ship Master," Balask cautioned from the foot of the command deck. "It surely wishes to set a trap for us."

"I am aware of that!" He turned his attention back to the fleet. All the Jiralhanae had fled from the region, leaving only the Sangheili forces, those who chose to follow them, and the Flood. He glanced at High Charity. A status screen showed that all the Phantoms they had sent in were pulling out, laden with survivors. Among them would be civilians, women and children, as well as warriors who had perhaps valiantly stayed behind at first but then leaped at the chance to be saved.

However, another display caught his attention. When he focused on it, he realized with horror what it was.

High Charity's weapons systems were coming online and targeting the survivors. He activated both the pilot and weapons runes. "We must cover the retreat of those Phantoms. Let us go between High Charity and them, and raze the Flood-controlled weapons before it is too late!" Almost immediately the ship responded, the appropriate officers understanding the severity of the situation. High Charity had been home to hundreds of thousands of non-combatants; roughly half of all the soldiers in active duty could claim they were sired and hatched within its sacred walls.

The _Honor _came into position, two cruisers following her, apparently having caught on to the survivors' plight. They arrived just in time; the massive plasma cannons on the city's exterior warmed and fired, setting wave after wave of death upon the meager flight of dropships. With practiced accuracy, however, the Elite ships returned fire, slagging turrets where they could. A few shots got through, and a wing of dropships exploded in a blue inferno. 'Kaeromee winced; how many had they carried? Twenty, or perhaps even thirty each? Of them, how many were women, children?

But by and large the shots struck the ships that had come to the Phantoms' aid. The carrier's shields shrugged most of the impacts off, suffering only 26% damage. The cruisers were slightly worse off, one of the pair losing its aft shielding and taking several hits to the Engineering section. 'Kaeromee saw small jets of white atmosphere being vented out into space, but the cruiser kept up its barrage regardless of its own damage.

When all Phantoms had safely boarded other ships the group of three pulled back and retreated, all the while the Flood chewed up their backsides. Finally they got out of range and entered the grouping of ships that had begun to circle in a wide ring around High Charity.

"Damage report?" 'Kaeromee asked, hoping it was minimal.

The reply came back after a short pause. "Inconsequential, Ship Master. The shields were never penetrated. A few generators have overloaded from the strain, but the Huragok are already hard at work repairing them." The golden-armored Sangheili nodded and turned around to face Balask. His black Special Operations armor was scuffed and burnt from the action he had seen on High Charity during the Schism and the Infection, yet he stood just as tall and proud as if it were shining new, as if he hadn't just spent several hours in constant combat. Were the situation calmer he would have commanded the Senior Officer to bed, to catch what sleep he could before the fleet decided what the next best choice of action was.

However, there was a curiosity that required investigating.

"Is your team ready for deployment?"

Balask 'Zakamee nodded. "They can be prepared for an outing within five minutes."

"Then have them so. Commandeer a Phantom from the hangar and take it to High Charity. Infiltrate the Parasite's defenses and report back to me. Go with the Gods." The warrior clenched a fist and pressed it to his chest in a salute before turning and striding out off the bridge.

_He did not ask why, _'Kaeromee noted, turning back to the holographic displays. _He already knows what purpose this mission serves. _When the Forerunner Dreadnought left, presumably with the Prophet of Truth aboard, it had left the city incapacitated and dark; without its power source only the most basic of life support systems could function. Yet the Flood had somehow been able to amass enough energy to run the defense systems. If they could activate the weapons, what else could they do?

'Kaeromee had to know how the Flood was powering the city. And if it could get enough power, then it could perform a Slipspace jump out of the system and go anywhere in the galaxy.

* * *

When the dropship appeared, everyone took cover in the foyer, two Elites crouched near the door, holding liberated Fuel Rod Guns, taking careful aim at the incoming craft. It slowed to a stop and hovered over the balcony. A tense moment passed, the two sentries aiming up at the beetle-shaped vehicle, waiting to see what it did. Its cannon slowly rotated… away from them, to target out over the bay, towards the beach where the wrecked armor lay. It repositioned itself and disgorged a team of soldiers.

A team of _Sangheili _soldiers.

Everyone inside let out a simultaneous breath that none of them had realized they were holding. Maka held a hand over his heart in thanks to the Gods… but then stopped. Were there still Gods to pray to after they had been excommunicated from the Covenant? He didn't know.

Two of the newly arrived Elites stepped into the foyer, their eyes briefly taking in the destruction before settling on the Arbiter. Both saluted and bowed low. "Arbiter," one of them said in a deep, tired voice, "we have come on behalf of Commander 'Vadumee. We are to take you and your soldiers back to…" His voice trailed off as he saw the small group of humans; immediately his speech was forgotten and he raised his Carbine, sighting down the barrel and aiming right for the female officer. Immediately the humans reacted, raising their own weapons, to which the remaining newcomers prepared themselves for battle.

Before any shots could be fired, however, N'tho stepped between the two sides. "Brothers, wait!" he said. "Do not fire!"

"Stand aside, young one," one of the Elites said. He sounded older than N'tho, but his face and body were covered by the crimson standard of Ranger Major armor. "If you sympathize with these humans, you shall be executed right here."

N'tho bristled, but the Arbiter stepped in. "Lower your weapons," he commanded. "Don't you see _we_ do not take up arms?"

The Ranger didn't falter in his aim, but his head did incline slightly as he surveyed the room, seeming to notice for the first time that none of those who they had come for were aiming weapons at the humans; in fact, the humans were _included _in the group. Maka watched for several seconds, his hearts in his throat, before the crimson-armored Sangheili lowered his Carbine. The others followed suit, though Maka could see no lack of confusion on their faces.

The Arbiter seemed to see this as well. "All shall be explained," he told them, "but we must hurry away from this place. Undoubtedly the Jiralhanae will return to extract vengeance on the death of their chieftain."

"It is reassuring to hear Tartarus is dead," the Ranger said, "but no Brutes will come. After they took control of many ships they escaped into Slipspace, following the Prophet of Truth. Those that remain on the ring are either captured or in full retreat."

Murmurs passed through the crowd as the Sangheili discussed the latest turn of events, but it was the female human who stepped forward to speak openly. "Where did he go?"

The Ranger became visibly agitated, but the Arbiter placed a hand on his shoulder. After exchanging a glance, the crimson-armored Elite forced himself to look at the human. "We do not know for sure, but I conjecture it might be your home world they seek."

A look of panic washed over the human's face, but the dark-skinned human walked up and began talking with her in hushed tones.

The Ranger turned back to the ceremonially-armored hero. "Arbiter, I demand an explanation! Why are these humans unrestrained and armed? They are too dangerous to be allowed to walk about freely."

Strangely, Maka did not agree with the observation. He thought back to the fight to escape the control room, and indeed the battle with Tartarus: the humans had fought bravely and efficiently for each step, spending their own sweat beside the Sangheili. Obviously there was detectable tension, and a lot of it, but so far the two species had fought side-by-side with mild success. For a moment, the young warrior envisioned a battlefield on which both humans and Sangheili fought a unified front again the Jiralhanae; he could not deny the adrenaline rush such a thought brought to him.

The Arbiter was in the process of telling the Ranger something along the same line when one of the other Elites raised a hand up to the side of his helmet, held it there for a moment and let it drop. "Arbiter," he said, "we must go. Commander 'Vadumee wishes to leave the surface of the ring quickly; there are reports of Flood movement away from the Quarantine Zone."

Now with an objective, the surviving Sangheili and humans crowded together and ascended in pairs up the Phantom's gravity lift, the Oracle trailing behind the humans. Once everyone was inside the dropship the craft began its flight back to the _Purity of Spirit_. The Ranger raised his hand and toggled his communications channel.

"This is Major Usze 'Tahamee," the Ranger spoke. "Excellency, we have rendezvoused with the Arbiter and his…" He paused and glanced back at the humans. "… forces. We shall be among you again soon."

'Vadumee's response came back across the open channels. "It is good to know some of you survived," he said, his voice slightly slurred. At some point, Maka did not know when, the Special Operations Commander had lost two of his mandibles; popular theory was that it had happened as a result of a fight, though the specifics were constantly in flux. "There is room for you on board," the commander continued, "but, Arbiter, I would have a word with you."

"And I you, Commander," the Arbiter replied, looking at the humans. "There is much to discuss."

"Then we need not waste further time."

* * *

"We are nearly there, Excellency."

Balask nodded his approval at the young Kasa 'Yonomee and retreated from the Phantom's cockpit, walking up the small sloping ramp to the main troop deployment bay. Opom, Sesep, and Nunot were preparing their equipment for the excursion: a plasma rifle and two grenades each. The acting team leader walked across the smallish room and plucked a Carbine from the wall, checking to make sure it was loaded and seizing additional clips of ammunition. Then he secured a plasma rifle to his hip; he would not deny its potential against the Flood.

With that finished he turned and regarded the team. Since Oriné had been killed on Earth and his sub-Commander with him, responsibility for the team had fallen to Balask as the Senior Officer, and it had been a heavy burden to bear. His team, Blessed Unit, had been fighting constantly since the Jiralhanae had turned on them by the orders of the Prophets. That their own Hierarchs' treachery had caused the deaths of countless Sangheili warriors and their ignorance allowed the Parasite to gain control of High Charity was maddening and humiliating.

However, they still had a mission: the Flood had taken the city, and with the surviving refugees shuttled out of the way it was time to perform a fact-finding mission. Somehow the Parasite had been able to power the city's defenses even though the power source had escaped into Slipspace. Balask had no doubt the Flood was providing its own power, but how it was doing so was unknown.

The cockpit door slid open once again and Kasa exited, tugging uncomfortably at his new armor. The team leader could empathize, but the use of Assault armor was a necessity. The Parasite was undoubtedly filling the air within with spores and converting the atmosphere, making it impossible to breathe. Because of their dependence on external breathers already, the Unggoy were ironically better prepared; the two Sangheili, however, had required a sealed atmospheric alternative to the standard Combat harness they usually wore.

"The Phantom will land itself in one of the hangars, Excellency," Kasa said. "Whatever powers the city now has also restored energy to the automatic flight subsystems, be it purposefully or by mistake." He crossed to Balask's position and retrieved a Carbine and plasma rifle. After securing them to their magnetic holds he fumbled with the helmet, barely managing to properly open it and clasp it shut around his head. He motioned for the team leader to double-check his seal. "Gods be good, how am I to breathe in this thing? Or speak?"

Balask confirmed the oxygen seal was solidly in place before beginning to secure his own headgear. The entire harness was, in truth, a much older model of armor used before even the Combat harness had been put in place; however, after the encounter with the Flood on the first Halo, the Special Operations teams had begun to put them back in service because of their ability to become completely airtight and operate in hazardous conditions. In addition, with thicker plating and stronger kinetic dampeners the Assault harness could take more punishment. These particular models had been adjusted to contain active camouflage units that would prove vital to this infiltration.

Once the helmet was secured, Balask understood the younger warrior's complaints. The helmet was very claustrophobic, making it seem like his breathing was restricted, and the mandible guards were very tight. When he spoke he felt the helmet press in on them.

"It is not so bad as the alternative," he reminded Kasa. A visible shudder passed through the Junior Officer's form before a light in the cockpit began blinking.

"We are about to land, Excellency," Kasa said.

Balask nodded. "Shields and active camouflage," he ordered. Sparks ran up his spine as a thin film of energy was briefly visible over both he and Kasa, and then the Elites and Grunts began to fade from view. "We do not know the Flood's capabilities at this point, so full caution must be observed: radio silence, hand gestures only. Our first objective is to find a data terminal and determine where the energy is coming from. Once we do so we will find the source and attempt to destroy it, then we shall escape via this Phantom." The Phantom settled to the deck within, and doors along the side opened up. "Forward!"

The group split up, the two Elites going out the port side and the Grunts the starboard. Immediately Balask knew that much had changed: the floor beneath his hooves felt soft, malleable; when he looked down, he saw that the entire surface had been covered in a semi-thin film… no, a _membrane_. The thought sent chills through his core.

Though he could not see his comrades, his helmet dealt with that issue itself by overlaying tags where the others moved: B02, he realized, was Kasa; the others, B03 through B05, were the Grunts, though he didn't know who was who. Regardless, all the tags were moving towards the dropship bay's exit, and he followed suit. With a practiced movement he reached behind him and drew his Carbine. When in active camouflage, not only could one not see teammates but he could not see _himself_. Thus, in training, countless hours had been dedicated to the act of learning the exact location of all his equipment and practicing how to retrieve exactly what he needed without the aid of his eyes. It had been difficult but now he, and every Special Operations unit deployed, was an expert.

As the team proceeded through the hall, Balask took note of two peculiar things: the first was the membrane. It was all encompassing, covering every surface and turning it into a murky green-brown, with what looked to be dark veins running throughout. When he reached out and touched it, it was solid and soft, yet not overly so. Here and there, however, were large lumps, usually part of both the floor and walls, with some definition left to them: here, combat forms had molded together, adding their calcium into larger mounds in which other grotesque soldiers could replace their reserves or join the blob. It was similarly fascinating and revolting.

The second thing of note was the total lack of active Flood forms, combat or otherwise. Spores floated through the air, parting for the invisible Sangheili, and he was suddenly even more appreciative of the protection his helmet offered his lungs. The air within was stale, relying on a single atmospheric recharger to cycle the oxygen he was breathing, but it was definitely better than inhaling the Flood spores. If enough were introduced to a body it would succumb to infection, possessed by one of the bulbous infection forms or not.

Pressing forward, the team cautiously made its way down what had once been a geometrically designed hallway but now was more akin to the intestine of an animal. The doors had been forced open by the growth and Balask could just make out slight contusions in the fleshy substance where the doorways were, almost as if something were forming there. He ensured the small camera in his helmet captured the anomaly before turning his head away and continuing down the corridor; there were more pertinent things to be concerned with, first and foremost being the mission.

They traveled over the course of the next several minutes, encountering absolutely no resistance whatsoever, until they reached a terminal set into a wall. The Grunts immediately formed a delta-shaped defense, each taking a point of the triangle and aiming outward while Kasa decloaked and began to access the network; Balask stood immediately behind him back to back, sweeping above the Grunts' heads with his Carbine. Still no sign of the Flood. The Senior Officer was growing agitated by this development, or lack thereof, but did not let it show.

"Kasa, have you penetrated the network yet?" Balask asked over his shoulder, barely moving his head.

"Yes, Excellency," Kasa replied, though he was hesitant. "There is a massive power source in the city, though the network is not able to assign a designation to it and I am unable to decipher what kind of power it is." He keyed through a menu. "However, I do have a fix on its location: tower eleven."

A knot rapidly formed between Balask's stomachs. Tower eleven had been where the human ship crashed after it had managed a Slipspace jump inside the city, allowing the Parasite within to begin to pour into the holy city. Its reactor could possibly still be functioning, which could account for some of the power, but the rest…

"Where is the power going?"

Kasa paused for a minute to consult a table. "So far there is power for almost all subsystems, the only major exception being the air purifiers. If the Parasite wishes to turn this area into a hive then it would not want such devices in operation. They could weaken it."

A plan began forming in his mind, hope of a slight chance. "Can you bring them online?"

There was a moment as the Junior Officer attempted to work the terminal. A buzzing sound followed his movement. "Negative, Excellency. The network has become corrupted and fragmented. I cannot undo the damage done without risking detection."

"Very well," Balask said. "We shall proceed to tower eleven. Find us a course through the city that will bring us past the purifier control; we may be able to disrupt the Flood long enough to destroy this power source and stop their progress here." Kasa nodded and downloaded a path through High Charity, displaying it on the holographic dashboard of both himself and Balask. Two markers appeared: one was the air purifier, the other the crash site of the human vessel. With a hand motion the Senior Officer motioned the team into movement.

As they moved forward, one of the Grunts fell back, B04. "Excellency?"

Balask recognized the timber of the voice. "What is it, Opom?"

"We are afraid," he said. "What shall we do if the Parasite falls upon us unexpectedly?"

The thought had occurred to Balask. He and Kasa may yet be saved by their shielding and superior weaponry, but the Unggoy would be easy pickings, especially for the spry and powerful combat forms. There was a great potential for casualties in such a dangerous mission, but Balask had known that coming in.

Did they?

"Do not fear, little one," he finally replied. "You and your comrades will be fine." Balask could not see the Grunt's silent reaction, but he felt his presence leave.

Their difficult and nerve-wracking trudge continued. As it so turned out, the map was of little use other than pointing them in the general direction of their objectives. The interior geometry of the city had begun to be warped by the dark and twisted mind of the Flood. Passages were often filled with organic matter where once there had been a way through, and in other places the Parasite had somehow dissolved its way through layers of battle plate to make a new way. Already the once familiar layout of the city was almost completely erased. More often than not Blessed Unit had to negotiate a way through the membranous corridors, delaying their already hindered progress.

It was easily two hours before they were finally able to find the room where the purifiers were located. Of all the changes they had seen so far, this room was the least altered, with the holographic controls still flickering and the manual openings leading down to the units themselves. In addition, there was still a door in operation, and once past they made a specific effort to lock it down. Once secure, the entire team deactivated their camouflage.

"Cover the doorway," Balask ordered the Unggoy. "Take cover where you can." He turned to Kasa. "Quickly, reactivate the purifiers. Once we do, I am certain the Parasite will converge on this location, but if we are swift enough then we may be able to avoid them and continue unimpeded to the power source." Kasa nodded and hurried to the terminal, calling up and scanning through the diagnostic data.

"The systems are still in place, Excellency," he said. "There is a blockage in the tube. A grenade should be able to—"

He was cut off as an unearthly shriek exploded through the small room. At first Balask tensed himself, preparing himself for the Parasite rush that was preceded by such a call, but realized that, though tortured, it was not the same anguish-laden cry of the Flood. It was much sharper and possessed of only one voice, as opposed to the like shrill-and-bass conglomeration of vocals that usually made up their battle cry. A moment later the sound repeated itself, its tone changing; it sounded so painful that Balask found himself cringing and almost raising his hands to his ears were it not for the realization that he couldn't have reached them through the helmet.

"What is that?" Nunot screamed.

"Excellency!"

Balask turned at Kasa's urgent voice, and his breath caught in his throat. The Junior Officer had fallen back from the terminal where the holographic controls had hovered mere moments before, yet now they were something else entirely. The hologram was shifting, moving, warping itself into a different shape. At first it merely looked like a cone, reaching out of the terminal towards the terrified Kasa, but it suddenly twisted and aimed upwards. From there it began to take a much more definitive form, four appendages suddenly sprouting and resolving themselves into obvious arms and legs. The main cone slowly took an hourglass shape that then changed into a body… a _human _body. A head emerged from the point, said apex resolving itself into a round neck.

It was a human female's image, but Balask knew that it was an artificial intelligence. Though the humans' hardware was primitively effective at best, their grasp of electronics had astounded even the Covenant. Their AIs were renowned as being a tide-turning presence in battle, capable of causing mass chaos and destruction in a Covenant fleet without a human ship ever firing a shot. They could tangle networks, override and block out communications channels, even choose specific areas of a ship to decompress. Balask had always assumed them to be vast, horrifying beasts of cyberspace with bladed tentacles and huge mouths like black holes.

Instead, this one was unique, fair, glowing with an internal light… hauntingly beautiful, in a sense. It glanced around nervously as eyes formed, each feature twitching in what Balask could only assume was fear. There was a presence to her, one of a chaotic knowledge. For a moment he was distracted by the realization that he had no idea how it had gotten in the network.

Finally it seemed to take notice of Blessed Unit, focusing its now fully visible eyes at them. Lights and symbols flowed across its curved body. "Survivors?"

Kasa glanced back at Balask, who could only return the look before the construct started speaking again. "You shouldn't be here. You have to get out! Warn the Elites that the Gravemind—"

It was cut off as a shudder ran through the decks beneath their hooves. A deep voice reverberated through the small room, echoing impossibly. "Lattices of light and data you make, but with steady patience I shall break," it said. Suddenly the construct looked even more horrified and looked around as if whatever was speaking was in the room with them. The voice continued: "We had reached an accord, you and I, a deal which need not be broken; for the home we were wrongfully denied by words our enemy had spoken."

There was a change in tone, yet Balask suddenly felt as if the voice was aware of their presence. The AI turned to him. "Quick, you don't have much time!" Its voice was distinctly feminine and very pressing. "Get out of here! Tell your leadership that the Flood is space-worthy! You have to destroy High Charity to stop it from spreading throughout the galaxy."

"That is why we are here, construct," Balask replied, though he was unsure as to why he was doing so. "We must find how the Flood is powering the city and destroy it."

"You don't have the strength to do that!" It was growing more insistent and visibly agitated by something, glancing around at things that weren't there. "Your only option is to bombard the station from outside, _glass _the city! Before it's too late!"

Balask was about to argue the point further when suddenly the construct's knees buckled, its head arching back in a loud scream, exactly what they had heard earlier. The hologram immediately exploded, sending lances of light every which way to fade into the air; the original control terminal did not return.

There was a moment of silence as the entire team looked at the missing hologram. A fierce chill ran down Balask's spine, and he knew it was no fault of his suit's atmospherics. Quickly he crossed to Kasa and helped him up, the warrior having been on his rear for the entire display. Before they could say anything, however, the deep and pounding voice returned.

"She has exposed you and left you defenseless," it growled, and it didn't take Blessed Unit long at all to realize it was speaking directly to them. "Embrace my progress now. _Become _perfection, no longer striving to attain it impossibly." Suddenly the room darkened, the artificial lights dimming and flickering. There was a fierce pounding at the door, and immediately the team refocused and trained their weapons on the source. Balask could see the damage being inflicted as the door caved in slightly at the center, other strikes bending the metal at other locations. _I know of no Flood that can do that, _he thought, but shuddered at the idea.

When the door gave, Blessed Unit opened fire. Three plasma rifles and two Carbines emptied at the encroaching Flood, burning through the initial Infection and Combat forms, the torched and twisted bodies collapsing to the ground. Behind them, however, more waves pushed in. After a moment the Grunts began staggering their fire to avoid simultaneous overheating while the two Elites fired in tandem, hoping their shots would be effective enough. When struck in the chest, the Infection form nestled within the Combat form would pop.

For the briefest of moments it appeared as if, barring an ammunition shortage, the small unit could hold back the onslaught.

Then Hell burst through the doors.

It was at first preceded by a swell of Infection forms that skittered on the walls and ceilings, forcing the Elites to redirect their fire. While their attention was diverted it struck, a mass of necrotic flesh and muscle smashing into the Grunt line. Sesep cried out as he was picked up and flung to the side; he struck the wall with a terrible force and dropped to the floor, followed by a smear of blue. He disappeared below a tide of Infection forms.

With the realization that one of his team was down, Balask refocused his fire on the massive new foe. At first he didn't recognize it, and then didn't want to believe it: a Brute Combat form. He had seen human and Elite forms, but never one of these beasts. Hair and mottled flesh mixed together in a disgusting texture that covered its entire body; one of its already massive arms had been broken apart and replaced with three writhing tentacles.

However, at least like all Combat forms, the sensory tentacles of the Infection form burrowed in its chest still poked out and twitched its commands to the body. Balask and Kasa immediately took aim and fired three rounds each, the depleted uranium pellets biting deep and popping the small devil. The heavy body fell to the deck with a thump as more of its comrades tried to scramble over it in their haste to get at the uninfected unit.

"Grenades!" Balask's cry managed to sound over the clamor of the Flood and the team activated their plasma grenades and let fly. Much to the surprise and delight of the warriors the charges adhered to the walls and ceilings, detonating shortly thereafter and engulfing the Flood in a wash of blue fire. The unit mopped up all survivors, and for a moment, there was an opening to escape.

"Quickly! Forward!" Balask rushed to get his team out of the confined space of the purifier room. "Back to the Phantom!" As they made their way out of the room and over the corpses of the Flood, the team leader took note that none of the Unggoy made the mistake of trying to bring Sesep's immobile corpse with them; they merely glanced at their poor mauled friend and kept moving. It was Kasa who hesitated.

"Excellency…"

"Keep moving," Balask said gruffly, giving the Junior Officer a shove to reinforce his point. After clearing the doorway the unit ran at full speed through the halls, shooting while moving at the Combat forms that leaped at them. However, as they neared the hangars, resistance thinned out, allowing them to slip through easily.

They rapidly climbed into the Phantom, did a quick sweep to ensure no Flood had gotten aboard, and sealed the side doors shut. Kasa and Balask rushed to the cockpit as the Unggoy secured themselves in the troop bay, pulling off their helmets as they did so. The Junior Officer quickly fell into the pilot's seat and began easing the Phantom backwards out of the troop bay, setting the forward plasma cannon to auto to ward off the incoming Combat forms. It blazed away at the Flood as the dropship escaped, stopping as they rapidly left its effective range.

Balask looked at High Charity. It still looked like the city he had known in his childhood, a place of peace and devotion, where things were simple and clear-cut. Back then, there had been no enemies except those in training, and they had only been armed with toy guns; the Senior Officer could remember a time when even the noise of the faux weapons had frightened him.

Now his home had been engulfed. And there would be no getting it back.

"Blessed Unit to the carrier _Drowned in Honor_," he said into his radio.

"Mission failed. Returning to the dropship bay."

* * *

Once aboard the _Purity of Spirit_, Maka 'Fulsamee felt the deck rumble beneath his hooves as it began to climb out of Halo's atmosphere, but he had little time to ponder Commander 'Vadumee's rush to escape the ring. As soon as they disembarked the Phantom they were caught in a whirlwind of activity as the Engineers swarmed around the dropship bay, repairing vehicles and weapons while Healers rushed wounded away. Several of the Sangheili who had been with them in the control room allowed themselves to be escorted off, but Maka followed the Arbiter; he was joined by N'tho, Usze, and the humans.

They rushed through the halls, ignoring the uncomprehending stares they got from the soldiers around them as those who had been their mortal enemy ran past. However, their glares turned to slack-jawed stares as the Oracle hovered behind them. To them the Oracle still held religious implications, and its presence was nothing short of divine. Maka wondered if such an advantage could be exploited… or, perhaps, he realized, it already had been. Who had declared Oracles holy in the first place? The Prophets had said they were the "divine messengers of the Forerunners," keepers of their holy message. Was that, too, a lie?

Now, however, it was buying them unmolested passage to the command deck.

When they arrived, Maka was nearly floored by the presence. A Hierarch's command deck was significantly bigger, certainly, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so… _luxurious_. Trees were growing along the sides, arching up with the walls into the apex of the dome in which was set a large glowing disc, like a smaller version of the one on High Charity. Various scenes were carved into the walls, most depicting the discovery of Forerunner artifacts by Prophets or the surrender of treasure by the lower castes. The monitors, tactical holograms, and battle stations seemed to be secondary thoughts to this otherwise grandiose room.

Commander Rtas 'Vadumee stood in the center of the dome, arms crossed and gaze locked intently on the forward screens. At the sound of their entrance, he turned to greet them… only to have his salute die in his throat as his eyes fell upon the humans.

However, unlike Usze, Rtas kept his calm. "Arbiter?" he asked. "Why do you bring humans to the command deck with you?" The Oracle floated in and once again Rtas's attention was rendered elsewhere, but to the hovering sphere he said nothing.

"As I said," the Arbiter said, "there is much to discuss."

Rtas nodded and motioned towards the forward view screen. "We are leaving the atmosphere now to link up with what remains of our fleet in orbit," he said. "When the Brutes rebelled they were able to seize many ships before following the Prophet of Truth into Slipspace." He paused. "I am still unsure as to what exactly has been transpiring above us, but hopefully the survivors will be able to bring us up to speed."

The Arbiter stepped up onto the raised command platform to stand beside Rtas. "Much has transpired here as well. I'm sure you experienced the…" His voice trailed off, unable to think of how to word it.

"The so-called Great Journey?" Rtas huffed indignantly. "Yes, I witnessed the farce. These Prophets have led us astray, believing in something that was naught but a glimmer in the air. We will have our revenge for their lies."

Maka saw the Arbiter mentally pause and roll what Rtas said over in his mind. "Yes," he finally said. "We will."

"Excellencies!" A crimson-armored Sangheili at the front of the bridge called from his station. "We are being hailed by the fleet!"

Rtas and the Arbiter nodded. One of the forward screens was filled by a burly Sangheili in golden armor, with Ship Master ranking bars on his shoulder. "Commander 'Vadumee, it is good to… the Arbiter?!" Unrepressed shock registered on the Ship Master's face. "I… We thought you were dead!"

"Many have," the Arbiter replied. Maka noticed the edges of a grin tugging at his mandibles. "Yet here I stand. What is the status? Are you the acting Fleet Master?"

The Elite on screen shook his head as if to dispel an incantation. "No, Arbiter. The Fleet Master's ship was overrun with Brutes and taken, gone with the Prophet as he fled. I am Ship Master 'Kaeromee."

The Arbiter opened his mouth to say something, but Rtas abruptly cut him off. "The Arbiter shall take command," he said, glancing back at the ceremonially armored hero. The Arbiter's eyes widened with surprise. "He is quite capable of the task and is a recognized leader among the ranks."

All eyes were suddenly on the once-shamed hero, Maka's included. They were all waiting to see if he would accept the mantle. For a while he was silent, contemplative; finally his head rose to meet 'Kaeromee's and nodded. "I will accept this duty until such a time as it can be passed to one more worthy."

'Kaeromee nodded. "Very well, Arbiter. I shall relay this to the other ships. What are your orders?"

"What is High Charity's status?"

"I sent a Special Operations unit over to investigate," the Ship Master replied. There was remorse in his eyes, but his tone remained level and professional. "According to them the Flood have begun to turn the city into one of their wretched hives and may soon have Slipspace capability."

"How many ships do they control?"

"Not many, but a handful."

The Arbiter nodded. "Rally all available ships to quarantine this area of space. Call any fleet you can reach and tell them, by declaration of the Arbiter, they must come and help contain the Parasite."

'Kaeromee saluted. "Yes, Arbiter."

"And be sure they're prepared for a parley." The Arbiter turned and looked over his shoulder at the humans and the Oracle. "There are going to be many radical changes in the near future."


	2. Captivity

Chapter 2: Captivity

A rumble stirred him.

Mind fogged and eyes bleary, Oriné 'Fulsamee pushed himself up off the uncomfortable bench he had been provided, which the humans so mockingly referred to as a "bed." He glanced around, no longer alarmed by the lack of light in his cell. A single strip of dull fluorescent light situated at the far corner provided all the illumination he would receive; he was unsure how deep, but he knew this place where he was kept prisoner was far, far underground. Now the light flickered unsteadily.

_Damnable creatures_, he thought bitterly. They were torturing him even now, he knew, as he lay in his cell. He had refused to divulge the information they desired to pull from him and they were making him suffer for it.

For a moment, the despair was too much to choke down. How long had he been trapped here? With no natural light he had no idea how the days passed. Time was indeterminate. He made to lie back down on his hard bench, but his mind cleared enough for him to realize the silence that had fallen over the compound.

With great caution, Oriné pushed himself back up into a sitting position, his armor shifting uncomfortably on him. The humans hadn't confiscated it, instead removing only his shield and active camouflage generators.

Slowly he rose on his unsteady hooves, shuffling his way to the bars of his cell. Carefully he reached out and touched a finger to the bars and immediately drew it back... but the electrical charge that usually followed was no longer present. With a bit more confidence he placed his hand against the cool metal; nothing, not even a flicker. He glanced back at the light. It struggled to provide what it could, but was losing the battle. In the hall beyond his cell, every other light had gone dark, leaving only faint emergency lighting.

He pounded his open palm against the steel, making a racket. No human came to investigate.

_What has transpired?_

He continued his noisemaking to see what would happen, but there was nothing. Taking a few steps back, Oriné assessed the situation. Had he been left for dead? Unlikely. The chances of him surviving and escaping were too great. But where were the human soldiers, standing at their posts and watching the prisoners with keen eyes? Or those horrible lieutenants that pulled them from their cells for torture and interrogation? None of them were anywhere to be seen.

Then he felt it: a very distant, very subdued rumble. He looked up as the light flickered even more rapidly, nearly failing but recovering just barely. Whatever had happened was happening on the surface, he realized. Something so calamitous that the guards, the lieutenants, everybody had been recalled, leaving the prisoners unattended.

_Foolish_.

Though his strength had been waning since being incarcerated within these walls of stone and steel, Oriné was still confident in his abilities as a soldier. He was an Elite Ultra, among the most deadly fighters to wage war for the Covenant. He was skilled in the use of all vehicles and weapons, but his most deadly weapon was his body. Adopting a martial stance the Sangheili clicked his four mandibles and lunged, kicking out with his right hoof and smashing it straight into the steel rods that made up the barrier. It buckled beneath the force of the blow but did not break, taking three more strikes before finally collapsing outward.

Oriné stepped over the wreckage and looked around. He expected an alarm but heard nothing; either it was silent or it too had become deactivated. A macabre silence had fallen over the facility.

He made a quick check of the nearby cells. No one else was being kept in this block, it seemed; all other cells were empty. Snorting he pressed himself up against the far wall and began making his way down the corridor, moving quickly through the lit portions and doing his best to remain in the shadows. The brilliant pearlescent armor of a Special Operations Commander was, ironically, a poor choice for stealth missions.

Resolve strengthened his mind. _I must find Rurut and escape this place._

_Gods be with me_.

It took him almost an hour of searching, but at last he managed his way up several levels to where the Unggoy were being kept. He had not encountered a single human yet. As he entered the cell block, he noticed many squat circular crates, one in each cell with all the rest stored in the hallway. He snorted. These were the battlefield methane dispensers, deployed at forward camps in order to ensure the Grunts' survival to fight and die for the Gods. For some reason, the humans were concerned with their well-being. Thinking on it, Oriné decided that they simply required fodder for interrogation.

Walking down the cells, the Elite Ultra discovered that there were fewer Unggoy prisoners than he thought. Most were heavily drugged and unaware of his presence, though a few reached for him pitifully. For a moment, compassion warmed his cold heart, but he stayed his hand. He needed to maintain stealth, and Rurut was the only Unggoy he trusted to be able to do so.

Finally he found a familiar face. Slumped against the back wall, next to the methane dispenser, Rurut sat staring listlessly forward. Leaning down, Oriné hissed the Grunt's name through the bars, but he remained impassive and unresponsive. He tried several more times, but the Unggoy seemed horribly out of sorts.

Growing impatient, Oriné reared himself up to his full height and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Sub-Commander Rurut," he bellowed, "wake up and do your duty to the Covenant!"

That got a reaction, slight as it was. Rurut's head turned slowly so his eyes locked on the Sangheili. "Oriné?" he asked sleepily. "Is that you?"

Relief washed over the Sangheili. "Yes, it's me," he said, taking a step back. "Watch out."

His strength was returning. Now it only took two firm kicks before the barred door gave way under his booted hoof. As it caved, Oriné rushed into the cell to help his friend in standing. The diminutive creature could barely mange, his knees were so wobbly and muscles so lax. He had clearly been drugged recently. The Elite Ultra cast a glare at the methane dispenser, now certain that was how the narcotics were being administered. He would have kicked it, were the gas within not so volatile.

"I'm sorry... Oriné, I'm sorry," Rurut kept mumbling.

"There is no need to be sorry. You must find your legs again."

"I talked. They... something is in the methane, we all talked..."

Oriné remembered what that one lieutenant had told him. How long ago had that been? He wasn't sure. Time was uncertain here. "It will be all right," he said, though he wasn't certain of that himself. "We will not give them the time they need to use whatever information you gave them. Come with me, we're escaping this horrible place."

With Oriné's aid, the pair began to slowly make their way towards the central elevator.

* * *

Through the window, Special Operations Commander Rtas 'Vadumee could see the assembled ships swiftly assuming their positions around the holy ring and surrounding space, and others only just slipping in-system; he was confident his orders to make and maintain quarantine would be transmitted and, more importantly, followed to the letter.

What he was less confident of was the Arbiter's proposal.

The strategic command center had been the accepted meeting place of the cabal of Ship Masters, Fleet Masters, and other high-ranked Sangheili who 'Vadumee had summoned here. Ordinarily, such a gathering would have a level of dignity to it: Kig-Yar servers would be coming and going with pitchers of wine, plates of the best food from the available stores, and polite silence. The battle table would have been lowered so all could kneel before it and enjoy themselves, laughing at jests and boasting of victories as they planned the latest phase of the campaign. On the walls, the decorative and tastelessly overgrown vines native to Sanghelios would be alight with the merriment of all present.

But now, such conditions could not be met for a variety of reasons. There were no Kig-Yar servants, as they had largely chosen to remain loyal to the Prophets. The best of the ship's stores wasn't available because it was being carefully rationed among a fleet laden with refugees. The table was not lowered because the guests were not to kneel but stand. No music, no gaiety, no leisure; 'Vadumee had made that point clear. The Prophets' betrayal had been felt far and wide in what was increasingly looking like a planned civil war. There would be no rest until those responsible were brought to vengeful justice.

'Vadumee stood ram-rod straight to the left of the Arbiter at the head of the table. On the right, a place reserved for guests of honor, stood the human commander Keyes. Admittedly, Rtas had been quite surprised when the Arbiter had willingly, and without any sort of binding, allowed the humans aboard the ship. But it had slowly dawned on the Commander that things had changed a great deal in a very short amount of time. Thinking on it, had it not been the Prophets to declare the human race as vermin? Why would they be right about that fact if they had been so wrong about a great many others?

The human female shifted her weight. With his right eye, the Sangheili studied her intently. She was much shorter than any of the Elites in the room, with the strange, almost sculpted appearance of her entire race. Her presence, however, was titanic, making most of the other Sangheili agitated and short-tempered; if he was any expert in human body language, he'd say she more than reciprocated.

Some Sangheili, however, were clearly not perturbed or even surprised by her presence. Rtas thought that maybe they had come to the same conclusion he had.

The Arbiter stepped forward and all fell silent out of a combination of respect and curiosity. His brown eyes looked over them. "I thank you for assembling so quickly," he began, "but I fear it has not been quick enough. The Prophet of Truth has turned the Covenant upon itself in a move of treachery we cannot even begin to fathom. I cannot guess how far this schism may run, but rest assured that we must now take steps to ensure our survival and the downfall of our enemies."

One of the golden-armored Sangheili present stepped forward and put his hand on the table. 'Vadumee immediately identified him as a Ship Commander having been placed in charge of a small frigate to scout space for Forerunner artifacts. In deep space, political updates and information would have rarely reached him. "Excellency, what has happened? Why do we speak of a Hierarch with such disdain?"

Rtas answered his question. "The filthy traitor has ordered the death of all Sangheili, favoring the Jiralhanae and setting them upon us like flies to drown us in their mass. It seems that for ages the Prophets have lied to us, led us along as willing servants and dupes to a horrible fate. His actions have revealed the very foundations of the Covenant to be naught but a lie."

The collected officers all muttered and looked from one to another. Some were nodding their heads in somber agreement, having experienced either that same betrayal or one close enough to it; others had fear or anger in their eyes, unwilling or unable to believe what had transpired. The Covenant had been in place since long before any of them were born. That it could be so broken was beyond their comprehension. Rtas looked on with worry as some Ship Masters laid their hands on their energy swords while others motioned for them to stay their weapons. He feared it may come to blows, the last thing the Sangheili needed: a second civil war right in the middle of the first.

One Ship Commander was brazen enough to put his hoof upon the table menacingly, holding an inactive sword hilt in his hand, visually threatening to stand upon the surface and charge at the two who dared speak these words. "What proofs have you?" he demanded. "Why do you say these heresies, you who should be the most holy of us all?"

Despite the situation, the Arbiter was stoically calm. "Indeed, I am holy in the eyes of the Forerunner," he said, his baritone voice washing over the crowd and subduing their urges, be they for one cause or another. Rtas detected a hint of irony in his friend's voice. "I have brought with me divine truth." The ceremonially-armored warrior looked behind him towards the door, beckoning with an outstretched hand. "Oracle, come forth."

The door slid open and the Oracle floated in, casting its radiant blue light around it like an aura. Immediately the officers at the table sank to their knees, mandibles slack as they gazed upon one of the most holy of relics. Even Rtas had to fight the urge, ingrained as it was, to worship the construct. He had already heard what it was to say here, when in private counsel with the Arbiter, and he had felt the weight of its words and the sharp blade of truth it wielded. It was a blunt method, too straightforward he feared, but effective. The Oracle hovered its way over to the Arbiter whereupon it stopped and looked back and forth across all the new faces.

"Greetings," it said a bit too brightly for the occasion. "I am Three-Four-Three Guilty Spark, monitor of Installation Zero-Four."

"Oracle," the Arbiter intoned, "tell us again of the Halos and their purpose."

The construct bobbed in mid-air. "Gladly." He hovered out to the center of the table. The image that hovered there, one of a tactical map of the area surrounding the Halo and all the ships stationed around it, warped and changed into a map of the galaxy. The collected Sangheili gasped, astonished at the Oracle's easy manipulation of the image. Rtas felt his own eyes widen in amazement. He had not seen this demonstration before.

"The seven rings are a last-resort system, built by the Forerunner to eliminate Flood hosts," it said. As it spoke, seven markers appeared on the map. 'Vadumee recognized their current position, as well as the marker that flashed red; that had been the previous sacred ring, the one destroyed by the Demon. "When activated, each installation will release a combined wave to cover the entire galaxy. This pulse is designed to eradicate any sentient life that could be used as vehicles by the Flood."

The Arbiter took a small step closer to the table. "And of the Forerunners?"

Fleet markers appeared, representing the Forerunner fleets as they fought in a last struggle, a final stand against the Flood... or so it seemed to Rtas. "Once the rings were activated, my masters were no less of a target than any other race," the Oracle said. Simulated pulses fired from the Halos, and as they passed through the Forerunner fleets the markers turned red and vanished. "They, and all non-Indexed sentient life within three radii of galactic center, died as intended." The map turned into several tables, charts, and readouts of energy spikes; the Oracle looked ready to continue with a more in-depth description, but the Arbiter held up a hand.

All around the room, the Sangheili officers had slowly risen from their humbled postures to gaze at the table. Now they simply stood, staring numbly at the table, just now fathoming the truth presented before them. The Great Journey was a lie. The Covenant was a fraud. The High Prophet of Truth, the one they had all followed so blindly, had nearly led them all to their deaths.

"My brothers," the Arbiter said softly. In the complete silence of the room, even his hushed voice carried far. "We have been betrayed by a power that we believed in. I realize this is difficult to grasp, but we must now think ahead. There are many repercussions that we must be ready for, not the least of which is making amends for blood wrongfully spilt."

All eyes looked up and fell upon the human commander. Whereas a moment ago they had been full of hate and anger, now they spoke of loss and grief. No doubt most of it was personal, but Rtas knew that, in each one's heart, they were realizing their mistakes. The crusade against the humans had gone on for twenty-seven years; and for each of those years they had hunted and burned these creatures. Eighty-two worlds full of people reduced to glass and memories, seventy-eight billion lives now stained their hands.

Reactions were slow to come but they were intense. Some wept bitterly, others cursed the Prophets and the Gods alike; still others simply bowed their heads, so overcome with shame as to not be able to function. The human female stood there, resolute as ever, watching these displays. Rtas supposed that she found it hard to believe that they felt truly sorry; in a way, he didn't blame her. Even now his heart bled, knowing how many humans had been killed by his hand. He, like many others, had kept count of their kills so they could brag of things such as glory and honor.

How hollow those words sounded now.

The Arbiter called for attention, and some semblance of order was restored among the officers. "There is much to be done and not much time for action," he said. "The Prophet of Truth is now en-route to the humans' home world to complete the genocide we started and activate the rings. If he were to do so, all in the galaxy would perish: us, our brothers-in-arms, our families and our enemies alike.

"I will depart directly from here to the human's world in order to propose an alliance. The humans will come with me, and together we shall hopefully be able to negotiate a cease-fire long enough for us to have our revenge against those who wronged us. A group of ships should also be dispatched to Sanghelios, to tell our people of these truths and dangers that now face us. It is possible, even likely, that our own world is embroiled in this conflict already, but if we act soon we may not be too late."

A Ship Master looked up. "What should be done about the Prophet of Truth?"

Rtas stepped forward. "From what the Oracle and the humans have told us, Truth is looking for an object called the Ark, from which he can engage all the sacred rings and"—he had to consciously work his mandibles to avoid the words "begin the Great Journey"—"bring all life in the galaxy to its end."

Another Zealot scoffed. "Why should an alliance with the humans be so worthwhile?"

Before Rtas or the Arbiter could reply, a Ship Master cast a dirty look at the speaker. "We of all the Covenant clients should know the value of the humans. When our warriors clashed in battle with theirs, though we called it an extermination, it was nothing of the sort. Blood spilled for blood, and the humans proved that they were worthy adversaries time and again. In fact, it was us who dishonored them when we burned their planets from orbit when ground combat was a far fairer and more even exchange."

"Why should the humans even accept an alliance?" One Ship Commander from further down the table said. He turned towards the human commander. "With all due respect, your people would have countless reservations if such an agreement was decided upon, and not reservations without merit."

Keyes, arms crossed, tapped her fingers against her sleeve. A nervous tick, or perhaps some gesture of significance? "Yes, we would," she said, "but we know about having powerful allies. We'd accept a treaty out of necessity, but you're right in saying that we wouldn't like it. Circumstances as they are, we're screwed otherwise."

"You are certain of your leadership's cooperation?" the Arbiter asked.

At this, Keyes shrugged, an odd motion barely familiar to Rtas. "I'm going on a lot of assumptions, but I think I'm right."

"What of the Parasite?" the Ship Commander from earlier asked. His posture was no longer confrontational; now he was resigned to do what he could to make up for his past mistakes.

The Arbiter took the inquiry. "This fleet must remain here to safeguard against the release of the Flood. We should consider the possibility of destroying Halo, so as to prevent the spread of the Flood further." For a moment, Rtas couldn't help but admire the Gods' cruel sense of irony. Here was a former Supreme Commander, disgraced by the destruction of the first sacred ring, proposing the idea of destroying the second.

"Indignation!" The Oracle suddenly said, making the collected Sangheili jump. It floated over the table, somehow seeming to be upset without any visible features. "It may not be _my_ installation, but destruction of the array is strictly forbidden!"

The Arbiter leaned down to Keyes' level. "Commander," he said quietly, "would you kindly take the Oracle out of this place? Its use in this discussion is at an end." Nodding, she beckoned for the Oracle to follow and left, the construct bobbing along behind her as she went. The doors sealed shut after they left.

Another officer spoke up. "What ships shall depart to Sanghelios, and who shall lead the expedition?"

"We will send however many ships are required to transport the refugees from High Charity, as we must ensure that our women and children are safe from the Parasite and from our newfound enemies. As for who shall lead..."

Rtas had been listening to the speech, staring at the hologram on the table, nodding along with the Arbiter's words. As his words trailed off into silence, however, he looked up and was shocked to see the Sangheili looking directly at him.

"Me, Arbiter?"

He nodded. "You led the reclamation of the _Purity of Spirit_, and fought beside me with honor many times on the sacred ring. I can think of no one better to convince our people of the urgency of our situation. Would you accept this?"

"I..." Rtas trailed off. He was not sure what to think. His father was a renowned Fleet Master, and since his days as a crècheling he had dreamed of joining him among the stars. "Yes," he finally said, half-drunk with glory, "I would be honored to receive this duty, Arbiter, and will carry it out to the fullest of my ability."

"Excellent. Consider yourself the new Ship Master of the _Spirit_."

The rest of the meeting was logistics planning. At least a few hundred ships would be needed to maintain quarantine of Halo, and though it put a great burden on those ships bound for Sanghelios, it was necessary. A tight net had to be maintained, as well as active surveillance of High Charity. Several ships had still been docked when the city fell to the Parasite, and they might have already been turned into vehicles of corruption. The external defenses of High Charity had to be destroyed so that Sangheili ships could get close enough to monitor the situation.

However, one Sangheili among them took issue with that. Rtas recognized him immediately. "Ship Master 'Kaeromee," he said with respect, "I was wondering if you would donate your ideas to this discussion."

Gersha 'Kaeromee nodded from his place next to the table. "Arbiter, Ship Master 'Vadumee, I have a far more... radical proposal."

"Speak," the Arbiter said.

"We must _destroy_ High Charity."

Murmurs spread throughout the gathering of officers. Rtas understood their reluctance; even though the Flood occupied it, it had been home to hundreds of thousands of families. Many of those in this room could have called their birthplace. The idea of destroying it was sacrilege to them. But Rtas's father had said that sometimes prudence had to overpower sentiment.

Apparently 'Kaeromee agreed. "My Special Operations teams have reported it to be completely overrun, already being transformed into their hive," he said. "The air is no longer breathable, the ceilings and walls are overgrown with tissue, what was once our home is now inhabited by monsters of an unspeakable nature." His fist squeezed tight. "We must destroy it, so that it will not become a cursed place in the eye of history."

His speech, impassioned as it was, rang through the Sangheili. Those who had muttered were now silent in contemplation. It would not be an easy decision. "Thank you," the Arbiter said. "We shall consider that soon. For now, I would recommend a brief recess, so that we may all clear our heads." The suggestion was accepted unanimously, and the officers all filed out to mingle and talk quietly.

As the Arbiter paced out of the room towards his chambers, which had been converted from the Prophet's private sanctum, Rtas followed on his heels. "I am honored by your decision, Arbiter," he said, "but I feel like I do not deserve it."

"I empathize," the ceremonially-armored warrior replied without turning around, "but there is more to it than honor. I require a steady and dependable friend in a position to command large numbers. You certainly deserve it, but for a reason other than why I am awarding it to you."

Once in his quarters, the Arbiter sat down heavily on his gel bed. Rtas remained standing by the door, looking on in sympathy. He had known the hero for quite a time now, even before he was the champion of the Sangheili, back when his name was still his own. But now, he wondered, could the Arbiter reclaim his name? After all, it had been the Prophets that decreed it be removed, and now they were hardly an authority.

He realized the Arbiter was looking at him. "Your wound looks better," he said. Rtas's hand instinctively twitched, the Sangheili barely repressing the urge to bring his fingers up to graze over the nubs where once his mandibles had been. Their absence was a constant reminder of the Flood's deviousness.

Instead he straightened where he stood. "Yes," he said, "the flesh is growing back onto it nicely, though some parts will remain mangled and scarred. The Healers say that if it continues at this rate, the injury will seem as a defect of my birth from a distance." It was hardly a better choice, as war scars were praised while defects were shunned, but sometimes he felt embarrassed by the loss.

The Arbiter nodded. "I've always felt poorly about your injury. Being the one to order you into combat against an unknown enemy, I feel responsible."

"You were only fulfilling your station. You had responsibilities to the Fleet."

"Clearly I should have had more responsibilities to my own kind."

Rtas was about to retort when his radio chimed. The Arbiter looked up, curious, but the newly appointed Ship Master held up a hand. "This is 'Vadumee, go ahead."

"Excellency, the Flood ships have begun to congregate around High Charity."

A frown formed on his face. What were those insidious things planning? "Very well, I'll be on the bridge shortly." He brought his hand down from the transmitter button and looked at the Arbiter. "We may have a situation developing."

* * *

If the total lack of human guards had been enough to unnerve Oriné, then the absence of any humans on the entire elevator ride up was enough to throw his mind into a state of quiet panic. His mind was filled with memories of his battle on Halo, particularly just before the Parasite was released. The Forerunner structure had been as quiet and still as this place was now; even though he knew he was on the humans' home world, he still thought he saw movement scuttling about in the shadows.

_Maybe I will feel better once I'm armed_, he thought, but he had no idea where an armory was and wasn't willing to search. It could be that the humans would return at any moment, and being caught outside of his cell would result in immediate execution.

Based on the length of time, Oriné understood how far down they had been kept. He turned his attention to Rurut, who was beginning to sober up from the effects of the drug, but his methane was still tainted. At this point he was highly susceptible to suggestion; it was obvious the humans' concoction was intended to make the Unggoy compliant.

The Elite Ultra felt a pang of regret for the Grunts he had left down below, but there had been no alternative. If the Covenant claimed this place, they'd be set free; if the humans did... well, it would be no different than before.

Finally the elevator stopped; Oriné pressed himself against one side and motioned for Rurut to do the same. When the door opened, he stuck his head out for a moment to assess the situation, but did not pull it back. No one awaited them. The Sangheili stepped out into a lobby, decorated with human vegetation and white-and-silver themes, the ceiling arcing high above their heads, and Oriné was momentarily struck with how much like a Forerunner antechamber it appeared. He shook his head; humans often perverted and twisted the designs of the Gods as a mockery of Their greatness. He should not have been surprised to see it evident.

However, the room held a kind of reserved beauty. Light fixtures, smooth and simple, hung from the ceiling. The entire far wall, in which a door was set, was entirely glass, letting in blinding sunlight. Oriné hadn't realized how accustomed to the dark he had been until now, having difficulty seeing past the glowing panes. All around him were desks, disheveled and seemingly forgotten.

"Where have they gone?" he asked aloud, but didn't expect Rurut to respond. The Unggoy only shook his head, walking over to a human's workstation and poking around.

"Excellency," he said, beckoning for the Sangheili, "look at this."

Oriné approached and gazed at the terminal located within. On a monitor supported by a thin stand he saw text, the human glyphics on the screen. Analyzing it, he realized it had been a message not yet transmitted. And judging by the abrupt ending, whoever had been writing it had been interrupted before completion, likely by the same event that left the entire complex abandoned.

"What has happened?"

His answer came not from his Grunt companion but from the outside. An explosion, immeasurable in intensity, shook the entire lobby. The fixtures on the ceiling swayed dangerously, books and small items cascaded off of shelves, and several monitors collapsed. Oriné reached out to steady himself against the low wall that surrounded the desk but it fell and took him with it.

When the tremors subsided, the Elite Ultra rose quickly to his feet and began striding towards the exit. Rurut jogged behind him. "Excellency, what is it? What is happening?"

"I know that type of explosion," Oriné said. He remembered it from various campaigns, distinct in its destructive capabilities. It was a plasma artillery bombardment; though he had mostly been on the administering end, he remembered a time on another world when the humans and Covenant had been so intermingled in battle that the Field Master had little choice but to shell his own warriors. Oriné and his unit had managed to stay alive, but many others had been killed.

Once outside he was momentarily blinded, but his eyes adjusted quickly.

And he saw why the facility was empty.

A full-scale battle was underway. Hovering low in the atmosphere were three Covenant cruisers, each firing nonstop at both ground and air targets; across from them were five human frigates, staggering their MAC rounds to keep up a constant bombardment. Banshees clashed with Longswords and Hornets above his head, filling the air with debris. And on the ground, the fighting was fierce; from his position Oriné could see a pitched battle raging between human forces that were dug in, some appearing to be personnel not particularly trained in combat, and a distant Covenant force.

Before he could dwell more on the matter, someone shouted and a row of bullets stitched the concrete just left of his hooves. Ducking instinctively, he dove to one side as a three-round burst fired straight through the glass.

"Rurut!" he cried out. "Follow me!"

The two made a mad dash for cover, bullets tracing along behind them and punching small holes in the metal building behind them. Once his shield would have completely deflected the small pieces of debris pinging off his armor, but now he felt each razor sharp flake as they hit his face and upper arms. It stung, perhaps a few even broke the skin, but he pushed forward. Behind him, Rurut was making impressive speed and seemed unaffected, either because of previous experience or maybe the gas.

Up ahead was an alcove; Oriné slid right into it and glanced around. The fire had lessened, possibly because of external pressure from the Covenant's push, but it hadn't completely been redirected and he needed to move. He and his partner were easy targets for a grenade while in that corner.

"Sub-Commander," he said, glancing around, "I'm afraid I must take a risky course of action."

"What is that, Excellency?" Rurut's body language was growing clearer, but his voice still had a dream-like lilt to it.

"We must rush the humans' position if we wish to escape."

The Grunt seemed to mull it over. "That is risky."

"It is." With that, Oriné charged forward. His plan seemed to be working: the humans, some the properly armored soldier while the others looked like they belonged at that desk, hadn't anticipated him to come _towards _them. Before they could level their weapons the Elite Ultra was on top of them. He delivered two vicious punches, dropping the nearest two humans and leaving only two more.

Using human weapons was dishonorable and discouraged, but not expressly forbidden. Oriné met the scripture halfway, grabbing one of the human rifles by its body and swinging it like he would a nadier. In such a fashion he was able to neutralize both of the other humans, only one getting off a shot, though Oriné believed it had been by accident as he slapped the weapon upwards. As the alien fell backwards, face bloodied, Oriné ducked down behind their own entrenchments. He motioned Rurut forward.

"How goes the battle?" the Unggoy asked, crouching down but not as low. Oriné looked up over the edge of the sandbags and watched; there was something strange about the Covenant formation. At this distance he could only make out several Grunts and Jackals; larger shadows moved, but they didn't seem to fit the proper contours to be Elites or Hunters.

_Impossible_, Oriné thought dismissively. Clearly his vision was not as recovered as he had hoped. "We have them trapped." Oriné looked further down the line; none of the other humans had taken interest yet, but soon they would turn their weapons on him. It was best to move on. "Prepare to run."

He waited until he saw the nearest humans reload, and then catapulted himself over the sandbags with Rurut right behind him. It was quite a sprint: the nearest group of buildings was over a wide highway with a waist-high concrete division down the middle. Just before he reached the divide the gunfire warmed back up again and he felt the bite of a metal bullet in his knee—his _bad_ knee. A splatter of violet fluid appeared on the white concrete, but Oriné didn't try to arrest his momentum. He hit the divider at full speed and flipped over it, coming to an inglorious stop on his stomach. Groaning and rolling over, he saw Rurut barrel over with the same method and barely shifted himself out of the way in time before 118 kilograms of Unggoy plus breather rig crashed on top of him.

"Your plans," gasped the Grunt, "go beyond risky."

"Sometimes," Oriné said, sitting up. The bullet had bitten through his upper calf armor and dug into the flesh beneath, as evidenced by the slow and steady stream of blood running out of the hole. However, it did not seem too serious. He struggled into a crouch against the divider. "We must link up with our forces. Come along."

* * *

"A moment for a friend?"

Maka looked up, surprised at the interruption. In front of him stood N'tho 'Sraomee, helmet removed with an imploring look on his face. Nodding, Maka set aside the Carbine he had been cleaning and slid off the top of the weapons crate. "Are you well?"

"Physically yes," N'tho responded, "but I am spiritually conflicted."

"How so?"

"My name has brought me much trouble these past few days."

The Elite Minors shared a look, Maka's far more puzzled. "Someone teases you for your name?" He wondered a moment. "The 'Sraom Clan may not be reputed, but I believe the House of Om is a strong one."

The other Minor chuckled. "No, you misunderstand. No one mocks my family name, but recent events have led to questions in my mind."

"Oh?"

"We have split from the Covenant, apostatizing ourselves from the Prophets. Is it truly right to maintain our military appellations?" Maka nictitated. "Wonder a moment: if we adopted our suffixes for the Covenant military, now that we have broken free, why do we still wear the shackles around our wrists and ankles? They only bind us to the memory of subservience."

Thinking on it, Maka realized he felt conflicted as well. On the one hand, N'tho made a very convincing argument. The "-ee" suffix had become irreversibly tied to the Covenant, though from his Knowledge curriculum at Institution the Elite Minor knew such nomenclature had existed long before the Prophets' intervention. It had simply not seen such wide use. In such an age of terror and looming death, sentimentality amounted more to a hindrance than a help.

But at the same time, he remembered how hard he worked to earn it. His time on Jisako had been terrible, claiming over half the lives placed in that sector. Afterwards he had learned that the desert world's star was in the throes of a solar cycle, creating havoc on its second planet. However, to the young Sangheili that had been stranded for a year, it seemed like nothing less than the wrath of the Gods Themselves. Month-long sandstorms, an almost complete lack of water, predators frenzied by the new patterns and driven to desperation by a dwindling food supply; it had nearly spelled his end. His ascension into the military had been the only thing stopping the madness from setting in.

Within himself he could find no reconciliation, so he turned externally. First his mind's eye drifted towards the Forerunners, but he hesitated. Were they truly Gods or just extinct phantoms sustained only by the delusions of a xenophobic hegemony? Again, no answer, so he turned to the last bastion of guidance: _what would my brothers do?_

They were war heroes both, though each had a dark and treacherous past. Orna had left home and slipped into the darkness of space; not since Oriné's return from Jisako had the family heard anything directly from him. Supposedly he was a Supreme Commander, but what did that mean when he was too far removed from his own bloodline for it to be relevant? And Oriné himself had been a lesson in retribution, losing his twin sister and the family's honor to the Prophets, even though later he had been commended and promoted greatly for his service on the first Halo. Even Maka, struggling through his final Proofs at Institution, isolated from those whom he could call siblings, had been aware of his distant brothers' successes. Together they had given him a guiding light even in their absence, marks which he was to match and surpass.

And so he realized that devotion to sentimentality, to tradition, had brought his own Lineage nothing but pain and sorrow. Exile and heresy was all that awaited him if he simply continued down the path determined for him.

Satisfied, he looked at N'tho, who had been staring at him curiously for the several moments it took for this internal revelation. "You are correct. As a people and as individuals we deserve to be unshackled from the methodology of our forefathers and to allow us to move ever forward." He reached out a hand, which his comrade took with zeal. "From this moment I renounce my military appellation as a wasteful and ancient tradition. I am simply Maka 'Fulsam, and I will stride on with all my heart and soul."

"And I, too, renounce my Covenant-given name. I am N'tho 'Sraom." They shook each other's forearms heartily and touched foreheads. "Shall we spread our message of rejuvenation to our fellow Sangheili?"

Maka could not help but grin widely. "Yes, let us liberate our people."

It took much discussion, debate, and persuasion, but soon many of the Sangheili on the _Purity of Spirit_ took to the change and spread it to the rest of the fleet. Though it would take a long time, eventually it would spread to all Sangheili.

Maka 'Fulsam had started a social revolution.

* * *

Rtas and the Arbiter entered the bridge. Immediately the silver-armored Ship Master hurried up to the command platform and keyed the communications rune. "What is the status of High Charity?"

"Holding station, Excellency. Some of the Flood-controlled ships are falling back towards the sacred ring."

"What?"

A new voice came over the radio. "They appear to be taking up position to load troops."

Rtas clenched his fists. "This cannot be allowed to go further." He opened a channel to the fleet. "Prepare to advance! We shall burn the Halo and engage the ships!" He turned back to the ceremonially armored warrior. "Arbiter, I would recommend you choose a ship for your mission to Earth and depart immediately. I would not want to risk your life in the coming battle."

The Arbiter gave him a look. "You think my life endangered in combat against the Parasite?"

"I know not its ship combat abilities, but if it is true that it may draw from the knowledge of those infected, it already has several capable Ship Masters under its sway. You and I both know that only a handful of ships used effectively can decimate an entire fleet."

It was a shared and painful memory. During the beginning of the Arbiter's career as former Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice, very early in Rtas 'Vadumee's time as an Operative, the Arbiter had suffered a near-fatal mutiny. One Ship Master, Thel 'Vadamee, rose up against him, claiming to be more worthy of the mantle of Leader than the Arbiter. 'Vadamee had been from the Yermo region of Sanghelios, a dominion steeped in the medieval traditions of his people; he was kaidon of the 'Vadam Keep, an ancient leadership rank of an even older concept of living. Manorialism to such an extent had fallen out of favor with the Sangheili at large during the War of Fortune, as such division was seen as weakening in the face of the Prophets.

Due to his dated beliefs, 'Vadamee was only able to convince a few other Ship Masters of his thoughts, but through his ruthless maneuvering was able to disable half of the fleet before finally being stopped. The Arbiter had executed the traitor himself, then had the body sent back to Yermo to inflict humiliation upon the 'Vadam Lineage. When he had been Supreme Commander, the Arbiter had not been one for mercy.

The lesson learned then was applicable now, as was the sting of being reminded of such times long passed. Straightening his posture, the Arbiter nodded. "Very well. I shall gather the humans and return to their home world."

"Take an escort," Rtas said, "preferably warriors with whom you have fought before. I do not fully trust the humans and their devices just yet."

The Arbiter left the bridge, moving through the ship towards the room in which the humans were waiting. Very few of the Sangheili aboard had fought by his side, only those that had survived the final battle against Tartarus and those who had been sent by 'Vadumee to bring him to the cruiser shortly thereafter.

It was from these candidates, he decided, that he would make his choice.

On his way towards the humans' quarters he overheard a commotion. From the sound of it, there were two raised Sangheili voices, and the closer he became the more he understood of the harsh words being thrown about. Finally coming to a stop in an armory, the Arbiter saw two Elite Minors being berated by a Ranger Major.

"You undermine our culture!" the Major shouted, helmet clutched in an angry fist. Without the covering the Arbiter saw the myriad of scars crossing his bare flesh, identifiable bullet and plasma scars all. "Were things as they had been a month ago, you would both be burned for your heresy!"

One of the Elite Minors tensed visibly at the statement, but it was the other, a brash-looking warrior with orange eyes, who responded with equal zest. "It is because things are not as they were that we instigate these changes! Have you been blind and deaf these past days? Did you not see the San 'Shyuum killing our brothers? Did you not hear cries of battle and death?"

The Major clearly became furious at the rhetorical questions, and even the Arbiter himself felt somewhat stunned. Under the Covenant's rules, for a lesser race such as the Sangheili to utter the true name of the Prophets was heresy worthy of death. Then again, it was clear that the Covenant had been founded on lies; why should such respect be given now?

Obviously, the Major didn't share the idea. "I shall discipline you with a fervor worthy of a song!" As he raised his hand, the Arbiter saw fit to intervene. This was about to proceed beyond a mere heated discussion of politics, and he had seen in the planning room that independent Sangheili beliefs could be just as divisive as the present civil war.

"Hold," he said, stepping into the armory. The Ranger held his arm as all three Sangheili turned towards the hero, surprised by his presence. Immediately the Major dropped his hand, bowing as the Arbiter entered. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Arbiter," the Major said, not raising his eyes. "These two have been spreading their heretical ideals among the troops and trying to subvert the authority of..." He paused. "... our leadership."

One of the Minors growled. "You continue to delude yourself."

"What is this transgression?" The Arbiter had little care to listen to another exchange.

"They deny their military appellation," the Major said.

The Arbiter cocked his head towards the Minors. "Why?"

"It is a Covenant suffix, not of pure Sangheili descent. With our excommunication, we must stand alone, and we must stand strong."

_A sound reason_, he thought. Glancing back and forth, the Arbiter realized that he already knew these warriors. Two had fought beside him and the third had come to rescue him. _And 'Vadumee did not specify the size of my escort_. He resisted the urge to quirk a mandible. It was hardly becoming of someone of his stature.

He turned first to the Ranger. "Major 'Tahamee, am I correct? One's name is one's own concern, now that the Covenant is no longer an ally of ours. Should the Sangheili on this ship, in this fleet, or anywhere else in the galaxy wish to dispose of any part of it, it should be their right. And, had I still a name of my own, I would agree with them." 'Tahamee grumbled, but bowed deeper.

"By your word, Arbiter."

Next the ceremonially armored Sangheili turned his attention to the two Minors. "What are your names?"

The outspoken one straightened and bowed in a proper salute. "I am Elite Minor N'tho 'Sraom," he said. "It is an honor to be in your presence."

Beside him, the other Minor managed to look uncomfortable, though he stood still as a mountain. There was something in his eyes. He did, however, give a flawless salute. "Maka 'Fulsam," he said. The name hit the Arbiter as if it was a hammer, and he was only barely able to keep his stoic composure.

_So this is the one of whom Field Commander 'Orgalmee spoke_, he thought. A chill flooded his soul. _The 'Fulsam Lineage continues_.

"Prepare yourselves," he said to them. "I am designating you as my personal escort to the human home world. We are to negotiate a cease fire and attempt to rally our forces together. The Prophet of Truth must not be allowed to activate the Ark."

"Yes, Arbiter."

* * *

From the inside of the building, Oriné peered out into the street. The fighting had continued in earnest, the holy onslaught of the Covenant slowly whittling away the pitiful resistance offered by the humans, but the Elite Ultra couldn't help but be struck by the way the battle sounded. He and Rurut had holed up on a side street access to the human defenses; by now the attacking forces should have sent at least a scout to see how viable this line of attack was. So far the Covenant had maintained their position, apparently content to maintain their frontal push.

Such was not the way to win a battle, Oriné knew.

Still, for now the humans' attention was focused forward, which would give Oriné and Rurut the chance to reunite with the line. Hopefully there would be spare equipment available so he could slip in a new shield battery and join the fray instantly.

The Unggoy had become more lucid as well, a greater degree of clarity returning to his eyes. That was good. Eventually the Sangheili knew that he'd have to set aside some time to talk to his friend about what had happened during their incarceration, what exactly he had told them, but for now he had more important things to concern himself with.

"It is clear," he said, and the two moved back out into the fading daylight. From his knowledge of human cities, it would be a simple matter to find the appropriate road to link up with friendly forces.

A few minutes later, Oriné rounded a bend and saw, at a distance, a lone Grunt sentry. He bellowed a greeting, and the soldier looked up, apparently startled. He yelled something Oriné could not hear over his shoulder, and a moment later a new figure appeared.

That was when he realized something was wrong.

Oriné brought himself to a halt, holding out his hand to stop Rurut as well. The figure had contours he wasn't familiar with: the armor was very angular and asymmetrical, seeming to inconsistently favor both sides and neither. The wearer was also very tall, a good half-foot taller than Oriné, and hair poked out between the plates and leather of its harness.

_A Jiralhanae? On the front line?_

With a roar, the creature raised a large weapon. Oriné's eyes went wide. A Brute Shot.

His hesitation cost him dearly. Instantly the air was filled with shrapnel, grenades detonating all around him. Without a shield between himself and the lethal hail, bits of metal and concrete dug into his armor and sliced through exposed skin. Ducking he quickly tackled Rurut out of the way, another grenade going off too close to his head. The world reeled. Through the fog he realized the overpressure had given him a concussion, but he knew that they had to get to cover.

"Go! Go!" He grabbed Rurut by the shoulder and ran towards the nearest building. _Why are they firing at us?! _Pink needles whizzed by, one glancing off his helmet. _Too close_. With his shoulder he burst through the door. Struggling against blacking out, he stumbled up a set of stairs, followed closely by Rurut. Outside he heard the pounding of feet as the Jiralhanae gave chase. Oriné barely made it into a room before he felt his legs give out. His mind swam in an encroaching darkness.

He was only barely aware of the door cracking violently under the force of the Brute's foot, and he passed out just as the shadow entered the room.


	3. Supermassive Black Hole

Chapter 3: Supermassive Black Hole

Ship Master Rtas 'Vadumee watched as the _Drowned in Honor _pulled away from the quarantine fleet. The Arbiter, at the insistence of Ship Master Gersha 'Kaeromee, had chosen the carrier as his vehicle to reach Earth. Though Rtas didn't share the Arbiter's confidence that it would serve him well, he would of course bow to the decision of the de-facto Sangheili leader. Personally, a smaller craft would have been more suitable to run the blockade of Jiralhanae ships doubtlessly surrounding the human planet, but 'Kaeromee earnestly believed that he could power through the defenses with his vessel.

_The Arbiter's life should not be subject to such folly_, the ex-Special Operations Commander thought darkly. It was odd: his attitude towards the ceremonial hero had completely changed in such a short time, but then, so had a lot of other things. When he had served under him as one of the Prophet Blessed, Rtas had thought the Arbiter a very capable and ingenious commander, but when the first sacred ring had been destroyed and that capable commander found to be culpable, Rtas had lost that respect. But in becoming what he had, the green-eyed Sangheili wondered if that heresy had not just been another step of destiny, pushing the stoic warrior forward as the true champion of his people.

_Time will tell, I suppose_.

He keyed the communications rune. "Status," he ordered. "How goes the glassing?"

"We are beating back their ships while some of our cruisers continue the bombardment," one Ship Master reported. "The Parasite has hardly deployed a tenth of its force in defense of the sacred ring. The task should be completed shortly."

Rtas nodded and cut the link, gluing his eyes to the front viewscreens. While part of the quarantine fleet had indeed been dispatched to Halo to glass it, the rest of the hundreds of ships were maintaining a defensive sphere around High Charity and the Flood-controlled ships that had taken up refuge there. He couldn't take any chances. If any _one _of them was to escape...

Chasing a ship through Slipspace was not as difficult as so many believed, so long as you had the transponder code. Fortunately, the Fleet of Homogenous Clarity had its entire index of codes on the Battle Net, and the Elites were keeping careful track of which ships were under Flood control.

After Halo was taken care of, perhaps they would systematically destroy the enemy cruisers and the now-defiled Holy City of the Covenant. When the option was brought up in discussion, however, many of the Ship Masters voiced their concerns with that course of action. Indeed, some of them had been born and raised within its walls and didn't want to destroy their heritage, but many others saw this as a chance to study the Parasite.

So, for the time being, he would watch and wait.

* * *

Gersha 'Kaeromee detested the thought of sharing his bridge with anyone, and not only were there other Sangheili on the command deck but _humans _as well. That addition had introduced him to a whole new level of loathing, hatred so powerful he had no word for it. When he had volunteered to guide the Arbiter to Earth, he had thought that maybe the humans would stay in the brig; but it seemed that the ceremonial hero didn't think them to be safe alone anywhere on the ship, and kept them with him at all times. His escort as well, the three warriors, stayed at his side.

So it was that the golden-armored Sangheili found himself on the command platform with the Arbiter on his right and the human female Ship Master on his left; down below were three Sangheili and five humans, the former just milling about, the latter transfixed by the various holograms around the bridge.

"What would be the best approach?" The Arbiter asked the human commander. It... _she _took a look at the Slipspace charts.

"What's the situation around the planet?"

"Unknown," Gersha replied gruffly.

The Arbiter gave him a look. "Can we not query the ship transponders?"

"The query goes both ways, Arbiter," the Ship Master replied. "Should we do so, they will know our location and uncovering our intention would not be difficult from there. Above all we must maintain our element of surprise." The ceremonial hero looked disappointed, but he simply nodded his assent. "If we are to learn the situation, we must do manual scouting ourselves."

"Do you think the Brutes have overtaken our forces on the ground?"

"We left such a small contingent that there is little doubt in my mind. Likely they were defeated and killed days ago." The words burned Gersha's throat, leaving a sour taste among his mandibles. To say such things drove him mad, but in the face of this new threat pragmatism had to be valued over racial pride. Only by expecting the worst could they be prepared for anything.

"I say we drop out of Slipspace beyond the lunar perimeter," the human commander said again, indicating the planet's lone satellite. "We should be able to do some recon from there without being spotted easily."

Gersha turned towards the Arbiter. "If we remain in that moon's shadow and send probes around to the other side, we should be able to plot a jump into the upper atmosphere without being seen. Surprise will be ours and I will be able to offload you and your forces with ease." The plan was sound: the only two things that could reveal a Slipspace tear were gravity waves and the hole through space-time itself. However, sensors had to have a direct line-of-sight to lock on to the latter, and the former would be masked by the satellite's own gravity.

The ceremonial Sangheili affixed Gersha with a stare. "What of yourself?"

"I suppose I shall be required to move away quickly," the Ship Master said. "If the fleet is as strong as the one which abandoned High Charity, I will not be able to remain for long. Even the _Honor _cannot stand against such numbers."

"Very well." The Arbiter turned towards the commander. "Will this suit you, Commander?" Gersha suppressed his snort. That the Arbiter would stoop to addressing this human by its... _her _title? Even the Ship Master struggled to remember to assign a gender-specific pronoun in his mind.

But shame soon reclaimed its place in his mind. Where it had been buried by his superiority in tactical planning with spacecraft, it now resurfaced when confronted with the creatures his kind had hunted for ten and a half Sangheilian years. As a Ship Master, and before that a Ship Commander, he had not only seen several planets burned by the Covenant's fire but had also taken part in the act. Four worlds; his carrier had glassed the surfaces of four human worlds. Try as he might, he could not recall their names. They had seemed insignificant monikers back then, used only as convenient references for battle plans. He never committed them to memory.

_Is there any way to repay such a debt?_ He doubted it. Their actions had committed the Sangheili to aiding the human race for countless generations to come. That is, if there would be countless generations to come; in order to stop the Prophet's treachery, they had to succeed in these actions upon which they embarked.

"Excellency," a voice said over the radio, "we are nearing the human home world."

'Kaeromee keyed the navigation rune. "Bring us out behind the humans' satellite and prepare data probes for launch. According to what the humans have told us, there is no atmosphere to speak of, so bring us in as close to the surface as you can manage."

The human commander watched with curious eyes. "You can jump that accurately?"

"Of course," Gersha replied absently. "The computer automatically corrects for all the natural eddies of Slipspace. Our path may not be linear, but it is quick and precise." He clicked his mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug. "Such are the ways of the eleventh dimension."

Now she looked completely incredulous. "_And _you know where planetary bodies are in normal space when you're out of it?"

Gersha was beginning to grow impatient with her simple-minded questions, but the Arbiter stepped in. "Gravimetric waves echo in Slipspace," he said. "By reading that image we can see where certain large or dense bodies are in normal space and navigate around or through them as necessary. However, anything that generates too many gravity waves will ultimately interfere with Slipspace travel."

The human looked contemplative. The Ship Master was surprised; how had humanity been able to access, much less navigate with _anything _resembling accuracy, the realms of Slipspace without this knowledge ahead of time? _Somewhere within that alien genome must be an allele that codes for dumb luck._

* * *

Oriné 'Fulsamee gradually returned to consciousness. Memories floated hazily back to him, among the first being images of Covenant soldiers shooting at him. He groaned, but it came out as a weak and pathetic sigh. _Friendly fire_, he managed to think. They must have mistaken him for a target, since he had run at them from the direction of the human line.

But more and more came back, and he remembered that there had been time enough for identification, but his comrades had been shooting at him anyway. There had been a small chase, though the Sangheili could barely remember it. And there had been...

Jiralhanae.

His eyes snapped open.

One of the furry beasts looked over at him from his sitting position. "The heretic awakens," it rumbled. Around it, other Brutes glanced up from what appeared to be a meal of red meat, highly undercooked. A smile fire burned nearby, sending a lazy coil of smoke upward. Rolling his eyes around, Oriné saw he was inside a building... or what had once been a building, anyway. Only two of the walls stood intact, the other two broken and crumbling, the roof sagging downward. The warped rubble around him was indicative of a plasma bombardment, but he recognized the angular architecture as undeniably human.

He was lying on his back. Trying to sit up, he found his arms and legs bound by thick chains that chafed at his skin. "Where am I?" he asked groggily.

There wasn't much light; Oriné supposed that it was currently night, wherever he was. In the dark he could make out some colors, and the armor the Jiralhanae wore seemed to be varying shades of blue. Two had the same tone as an Elite Minor, others with lighter colors in the same vein. One, however, stood after he asked his question. From the silhouette, Oriné recognized the same Brute that had charged him. It wore heavy power armor, violet in color, that was nowhere near as streamlined as his own: vital components, such as the shield generator and wiring, were exposed. It was either a very old model or had been cobbled together quickly out of cannibalized parts. However, the helmet demanded the most attention: it covered most of the creature's face, save the eyes, and had a swooping crest on top with a spike jutting out from the center.

"You await our chieftain's justice," it rumbled. Its red-orange eyes smoldered dangerously, lit by the nearby fire.

_Chieftain? _"Tartarus?" Oriné had few fond memories of the Brutes, and the name of the albino Jiralhanae brought up the most bitter of them. He recalled with perverse ease watching that particular creature drive a red-hot brand into his sister's breast. Reflexively he forced the memory back down into the darkness from whence it came; he had spent so long repressing those thoughts that it came as naturally to him as breathing.

"Once," replied the Brute, still towering over him, "but no longer. He fell in combat against your Arbiter." The creature delivered a fierce kick to Oriné's ribs, one that slammed through the haze in his mind and made him groan, this time a much healthier sound.

As he reeled from the kick, he turned the Jiralhanae's statement around in his head. _An Arbiter? Not in my lifetime_. He had not heard of another Arbiter being appointed, nor did he particularly believe it when this Brute said it. But the statement was clear in meaning: an Arbiter (or someone whom the Brute thought to be an Arbiter) had killed the Chieftain of the Jiralhanae. The idea was somewhat pleasing, but the thought became bitter in his mind. It explained this new rash of hostility towards him.

Still, such insubordination would not be tolerated. "I am Oriné 'Fulsamee, Elite Ultra of the Holy Covenant and acting Commander of the Earth Expeditionary Force," he said, forcing himself to power over his own wheezing. "I order you to release my bonds and give me your name, so I may report your dishonorable actions towards my person." Honestly, Oriné wasn't certain what rank this Brute held, but none of his kind could outrank a Sangheili. They were but temple guardians, relegated to reserve positions since their failure at the human world Harvest. That they were here now, on the human home world, was baffling, but finding the answer to that could wait. He had much to do, and clearly he had fallen behind on events since his capture.

However, his words of authority didn't have the expected effect. Instead of doing as he told them, all the Jiralhanae laughed uproariously, more standing to deliver kicks and beatings to his prone form. "I shall give you my name gladly, Sangheili dog," the first Brute said. "I am Gnaelus of the Calidke Tribe. Remember it as you are peeled apart for your heresy." The beatings subsided and the group returned to their meal, leaving Oriné battered on the floor. Shock overwhelmed his mind. What had happened? Why were these Brutes here, let alone standing against the will of the Covenant? What was the status of his forces?

Amidst it all, though, one question was still bothering him. "Where is Rurut?"

Gnaelus looked up. "The Unggoy?"

"Yes."

"He is among the other Grunts." With no other concern, he returned to his "food." Oriné, feeling the extent of his injuries, among them a bullet in his knee and several bruises all over his body, let his head roll back. So much seemed wrong, but at least Rurut was okay.

* * *

The _Drowned in Honor _fell seamlessly out of Slipspace directly behind the human satellite, called "Luna." At first, Ship Master 'Kaeromee was surprised by its size: fully one fifth the size of the planet itself. That was strangely large; clearly it had not been a wandering piece of space detritus captured by the gravity field. The initial scans revealed millions of craters on the surface, varying in size from the size of a Sangheili hatchling to that of twice the size of his carrier and bigger. It had apparently acted as a sentinel for the world, coming between it and many large and potentially lethal impacts.

"Release probes," he ordered. The affirmation signal from navigation flashed, and moments later Gersha watched the icons of the two data probes moving away from the ship, looping around the moon. They made micro-jumps before switching over to thruster power in order to drift invisibly around the body, beyond detection from the fleet lying on the other side. One adjustment had been made, however; instead of having been programmed with the standard return protocol (which would betray their location), the drones would simply self destruct. Hopefully the energy emission would distract the ships as the _Honor _made a jump simultaneous with the explosions.

Hopefully.

The navigation officer's voice sounded: "We have data coming back, Excellency."

"Send it up." The viewscreens filled with maps, logistics, and analyses. Chatter picked up among the enemy Battle Net flowed in as well, but subdued, a mixture of all the transmissions occurring at once. Images also came into view, and Gersha saw a most disappointing sight:

There were no human craft left, just a cloud of debris of consistent mass and density as the humans' titanium-A plating, as well as a smaller percentage of Covenant materials. Instead a fleet of approximately one hundred Covenant ships remained in the area (on this side of the planet, at least), a mixture of frigates, cruisers, and carriers. They were in a loose defensive formation, and the radio transmissions revealed that streams of dropships were moving between them and the planet. It seemed that Earth was on its last legs. The only good news was that none of the ships visible had assumed the pattern indicative of beginning plasma bombardment; it seemed the Covenant still had plans for this world.

Even though the displays were in a language she undoubtedly didn't understand, the commander seemed to comprehend the gravity. She muttered small devotions to a deity. Gersha gave her a sideways glance. He hadn't thought humans capable of holding religion; the Prophets had said they were willfully blasphemous, standing opposed to all things of the Forerunners.

_Yet another poorly crafted lie that we were all too willing to believe_. He felt disgusted with himself.

"The situation is dire," he said.

"Indeed," the Arbiter said. "Analyze the transmissions. Where are most ships clustered?"

After a moment of deciphering, they had their answer. The maps were overlaid with in-atmosphere deployment data: three continents seemed to be the focus of the Covenant's assault. "That's North America," the human commander said, "that's Africa, and that's Australia."

The Arbiter examined the map closely. "What is the significance of those areas?"

"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "the UNSC's high command structure is located in Australia."

Gersha snorted. "Consider it destroyed," he said, indicating the ship movement. "Even now those cruisers are moving in latitudinal and longitudinal patterns indicative of glassing. That continent will no longer be a feasible place of leadership."

"The North American ones seem to be focused south of Lake Erie, but the only thing around there is... Cleveland?"

The Arbiter looked at her. "Is there anything of importance in this 'Cleve Land'?"

"Not as far as I know. But this last group, I don't know what they want with Africa. They're above New Mombasa, or at least close to it. I can't tell from here. That was where the Prophet of Regret focused his forces when he first arrived."

At once, the Arbiter's eyes went wide. "Regret came _here_?"

"Yeah." She looked up at him. "Why?"

But the hero was looking at Gersha now. "Was he not looking for the Map to the Heavens?"

"Supposedly that was the end which he meant to achieve in his journey," the Ship Master replied. "From what was told to me, he encountered heavy and unexpected resistance here. I suppose he accidentally stumbled upon the world. His fleet was only composed of fifteen exploratory vessels, however, with mostly Inquisitorial units."

The commander looked thoughtful. "He jumped away suddenly, even inside the atmosphere. The feedback shockwave must have been devastating."

Beginning to pace, the Arbiter was focused on the image on the viewscreen. "The Map to the Heavens was located on the human home world, where the Ark is also located?" At once Gersha became attentive. The Ark? Located here? He hadn't been told, but he didn't interrupt. Instead he noted that the human nodded; _she _knew. "That is more than coincidence," the Arbiter continued. "That Regret landed at this Mombasa is a sign. He must have unknowingly journeyed into the Ark in order to retrieve the Map, never knowing what he was _truly _investigating."

Slowly Gersha realized what the Arbiter was getting at. He re-examined the deployment layout around that area, noting how the ships were adopting a circular formation and moving around a set area. "They are digging," he said aloud. "They mean to uncover the Ark."

The Arbiter turned towards the Ship Master. "Where is the Prophet of Truth? Is he here?"

Gersha reviewed the transmissions. "It seems not, Arbiter. His ship came out of Slipspace much further out in the system and is approaching on impulse power alone. Some unforeseen difficulty reaching this world, they believe, something to do with a safety protocol and proximity to the Ark."

"Then fortune is on our side." The hero looked towards the human. "So long as the Prophet is not yet here, the Brutes will be in a frenzy to ensure everything is prepared for his arrival. If we are to slip beneath their notice, now is the time to move. Where would your command structure be located?"

The commander looked at the map. "Well, if Australia is gone, and knowing Lord Hood... he would stay close to the action. I'd say Africa is our best bet."

"Very well." The Arbiter turned to Gersha. "Ship Master, when Africa comes to this side of its rotation, prepare to jump. Until then, hold station and gather as much data as you can."

"Yes, Arbiter," he said, saluting. A sudden alert, however, cut him off.

"What is that?"

The navigator's voice crackled in again. "Excellencies, we are receiving transponder data from a Covenant ship, broadcasting a weak expiration signal."

Gersha pursed his mandibles. An expiration signal was sent out with the last energy available to a ship, alerting all nearby cruisers to its ultimate end. Traditionally the signal was activated as the last action of the doomed Ship Master. Regret's fleet had been composed of fifteen ships, of which only one arrived at Delta Halo, being Regret's personal carrier. Then again, there had likely been combat between whatever had remained of the human forces and the Brute fleet when it arrived.

"Where is it coming from?"

"The surface of the satellite."

"Can we receive a visual?"

"Yes, Excellency." A few moments later the viewscreen on the left changed to a visual image of a large crater, miles wide. In the center was the twisted wreckage of a Covenant cruiser. It appeared to have gone down, bow first, into Luna's surface. It was an honorable action. The result appeared like a massive gravestone, the marker of a true warrior fallen.

Gersha flexed his mandibles. "Is the signal broadcasting a name?"

"Yes, Excellency, it claims that this is the grave of the _Steadfast Knight_."

The Ship Master bowed his head, as he saw the Arbiter do beside him. In a softer tone, he asked, "Do we know who commanded her?"

"Yes," said a voice from behind them. Gersha turned to see that one of the Elite Minors had walked up onto the ramp of the command platform. 'Kaeromee was ready to strike him for his insolence before he saw the look on the young Sangheili's face. "It was Ship Master Orita 'Fulsamee," he continued, lowering his head, voice full of sorrow. "He was my father."

The rage left Gersha as quickly as it had come on. "Then I grieve for your loss," he said, "but all indications are that he died an honorable warrior's death. There is little more a Ship Master can ask for in this life."

Maka nodded and retreated, but his shoulders sagged perceptibly. Gersha understood the pain of losing a father in battle, but he admired the young warrior's spirit. A lesser Sangheili would have perhaps broken down and gone immediately into full mourning, but the young 'Fulsamee was stronger than he seemed.

_Like all others of that line_, he thought to himself, remembering days long past.

Turning back to the front of the bridge, he was surprised to see the Arbiter still bowed in a protracted moment of respect. "Arbiter," he said, "you grieve so? Did you know him?"

"Yes," the hero replied, straightening. "I did, he and his sons. Honorable, all."

The Ship Master nodded. "I agree. I had the fortune of meeting his sons. They were the finest kind of soldier I ever met. He did a fine job raising them."

"Yes, he did," the Arbiter nodded, turning and stalking off the bridge. His escorts followed closely behind, but the humans lingered a moment, somewhat taken aback by the display of Sangheili emotions. Much like Gersha had found it surprising that the humans had religion, they seemed shocked the Sangheili had compassion.

_Such is fair_, he thought, listening to them leave. _We have committed genocide upon them for so long. We must appear as heartless monsters to them, like the dai'korai beasts of stories, simply ruthless with a thirst for blood._

He heard the bridge doors slide closed behind him and lock themselves automatically. Finally, for the first time in a while, the Ship Master had his bridge to himself.

* * *

"Ship Master!" Rtas shook his head, coming out of a light meditation. "There is movement within the Flood fleet!"

He keyed the rune for the tactical station. "Status?"

"The Flood ships congregate in a spherical formation around High Charity, Excellency. They mean to attack."

"Bring this vessel to general quarters, alert the fleet," he ordered. "How progresses the destruction of the ring?"

"Their task is almost finished."

"Have them rejoin us the instant it is done. We don't know what treachery the Parasite plans." Killing the communication, Ship Master 'Vadumee called up the war map of the surrounding regions, as well as any cameras he could access. The Flood cruisers had indeed begun forming a phalanx around High Charity. It was unsettling, to say the least. What he was witnessing was a flawless execution of a common Sangheili command tactic; that the Parasite could mimic it so efficiently made his hearts skip.

Remembering something, he keyed the communications rune. "How goes the loading of refugees onto ships bound for Sanghelios?"

A pause. "Well enough, Ship Master. The ships are loaded and are on an outbound vector as we speak."

"Keep me updated on their progress."

"Yes, Excellency."

Markers appeared on the tactical screen, showing the ten cruisers assigned to ferry the civilian refugees from High Charity to Sanghelios. Many were Sangheili who would be found homes among the lesser castes for the time being, until they could be properly relocated. The numerous Unggoy who had also been rescued would doubtlessly be put onto a transport bound for their own home world, Balaho, as soon as possible, so as to keep them from becoming a problem.

However, the civilian Kig-Yar would likely be detained and placed in refugee camps on Suban, one of Sanghelios's two moons. The Jackals had sided with the Prophet in turning against the Elites, and as such they would be treated as potential threats until either the opposite was proven or the war was over. Similar treatment would likely be allotted for the few Jiralhanae aboard the ships, but Rtas suspected the males in the group would meet with "unexpected accidents" along the way.

He did not find himself moved by pity.

Tuning in to the transmissions between ships, he realized they were about to jump into Slipspace to begin the long journey back to Sanghelios. Rtas decided he would watch them go, and observed as they fell into a wedge formation.

"Excellency," the tactical station interrupted, "a single Flood ship has departed High Charity."

"What class?"

"A cruiser."

Small and ineffective against the fleet, but still, the Parasite was a dangerous and unpredictable foe. "Keep it in your mind, but do not stray from your duty."

"Yes, Excellency."

A strange hum filled the bridge, and Rtas turned to see that the Oracle had wandered in. The humans had left it aboard, saying that they did not wish to bring it to the site of possibly the most powerful artifact yet discovered. This was most wise especially considering the construct's history of eagerness to activate the Halos. The Ship Master turned back to the screens.

The refugee ships powered up their Slipspace generators, a subspace rift forming around their bows detectable even at extreme range. One couldn't tear a hole between realities and expect the process to be invisible. The only time a Slipspace jump could be stealthy by any means was if there was a high-gravitational body between the jumper and the sensor array.

But as the ships prepared to jump, excited chatter began to build up amongst the quarantine fleet. Something was happening in the Flood ships; there had been detectable power spikes all over, indicative of weapons being charged to fire.

The refugee ships jumped. And hell broke loose.

The Flood-controlled ships began firing salvo after salvo of plasma outwards against the quarantine fleet, diverting power normally reserved for life support to recharge the plasma batteries faster. High Charity itself brought what defenses it had left to bear against the Sangheili. "Return fire!" Rtas thundered over the radio. "Burn the Parasite to ash!"

As the fleet returned fire against the onslaught, however, an alert distracted the Ship Master. "Excellency, a ship is attempting to flee!" Immediately the viewscreens focused on a single contact rapidly accelerating away from the battle. It was the same ship that had emerged from High Charity mere moments before the refugee ships had left. The realization hit Rtas like a stony fist to his gut: it meant to pursue the refugees and reach Sanghelios!

"The Parasite uses this attack as a ruse!" He keyed the fleet-wide transmission. "Make haste! The Flood will make hosts of our people if we do not catch it!" A list of ships appeared before him; the Ship Master knew that a smaller group of ships would be able to give chase much more efficiently. There were three nearby battlecruisers that would fit that profile perfectly. "_Holy Fire_, _Cruel Augury_, _Beloved Oath_; rendezvous with the _Purity of Spirit_ to give chase. We shall hunt this Parasite down and condemn it to the vacuum!"

As the ship exited fleet range, the Oracle rushed over to the screen. "Calamity!" it exclaimed. "A type-four alert is in effect!"

"Calm yourself, Oracle," Rtas said. "We will not let the Flood spread."

"That vessel contains an Index beacon," it continued. "The Flood must not maintain possession of the Index!"

This made the Ship Master look up in shock. "The Sacred Icon?!" His mind raced. He didn't know what consequences would arise from the complication of the Parasite having the Sacred Icon in their grasp, but another question was in the forefront of his mind. "How did the Flood come to possess it? I thought the human commander still—"

"It is the Index of Installation Zero-Four, the one the impertinent construct stole from the control room." At first, Rtas didn't understand, but it slowly dawned on him. The construct to which the Oracle was referring was the leftover human AI that Blessed Unit had encountered during their mission to High Charity. It was aboard that ship.

The Flood ship disappeared into Slipspace. "Battle group, enter Slipspace! We must catch that ship!"

* * *

"The target continent has appeared, Arbiter," Gersha said over the radio. "Are you prepared?"

"Indeed," came the reply. "We are aboard a Phantom. When we disembark, we will attempt a landing as close to the Covenant forces as we are able, and from there attempt to locate the human leadership."

"Very well, we are about to jump. Make ready." He cut the channel and keyed navigations. "Execute the jump."

In-system Slipspace jumps were often very disorienting. As opposed to a longer journey where the ship moved through the alternate space, these precise movements were often akin to a sudden shift in reality; one had to have blindingly fast reflexes to even see the pitch-black realm of subspace.

This particular experience did not disappoint. One moment, Ship Master 'Kaeromee was staring at the dark side of the moon and the next there was a hostile fleet above and a planet below. "Completed, Excellency," said the navigator. "We are now above the human home world."

"Signal that the Arbiter depart right away!"

"Yes, Excellency!"

"Ship Master! The Jiralhanae ships are coming about!"

Gersha consulted the tactical map. The entire fleet was turning inward towards him. "How long until the core is ready for a jump?"

"Two minutes!"

"The Arbiter has cleared the hangar bay!"

"Bring us about, broadside," Gersha ordered. "Warm lateral lines, prepare for full volley! Bring the energy projector online! Cover the Arbiter's descent!" Suddenly the deck rocked beneath his hooves, a sudden jolt that nearly threw him to the deck. "Status!"

The engineering rune blinked steadily. "They have disabled our engines, Excellency! We cannot move into the alternate space!"

"The Brutes insist we power down our weapons and lay down our arms," replied tactical. A Jiralhanae carrier was coming towards them, not fast enough to be an attack run but not with anything resembling caution either. Gersha glared, fiddling with the energy sword at his hip. He longed to feel the sensation of Brute blood running down his wrists, but he had to consider his tactical position. On a ship full of brave warriors, attempting to hold its own against impossible odds, there was not much to be done.

Surrender was not an option any true Sangheili warrior chose to acknowledge.

"Excellency, the Jiralhanae demand an answer."

Gersha's resolve hardened. "Burn our answer into their hull."

The _Honor_'s energy projector spun into life, firing a thin, lancing beam of plasma and carving through the enemy ship. It sliced through shielding and plating as if it weren't there, cutting a geometric path through the midsection and breaching the plasma core held within. In a brilliant blossom of sapphire the ruptured containment released itself and all its inhabitants as gas into the void. The sound of large debris hammering against his own hull brought great satisfaction to the Ship Master.

Immediately the other ships reacted, firing with pulse lasers and plasma torpedoes. The _Honor _replied in kind, answering the probing attacks of single fighters with point-laser fire and fending off enemy attacks as best it could. Gersha watched as his shields fell, but knew that with every hit they took, they critically damaged another vessel, taking it out of the fight.

A sudden jarring brought him out of his prideful reverie as klaxons blared throughout the ship. He nearly lost his footing as his vessel gave a dying shudder. "Excellency," reported tactical, "energy projector impact! We have lost the rear section of the ship!"

"How is core containment?"

"Holding, but unstable. It is moments away from achieving a runaway state."

_So this is it_, Gersha thought. _This planet is to be the final grave of my career. So be it_. "Eject the damaged fuel cells into space. Hopefully when they explode they will wreak havoc among their forces." He punched the ship-wide communications channel. "All hands, abandon ship! Make for the planet below!"

"Excellency, what of us?" Of course, the station officers; they had served him loyally through countless battles, and Gersha hardly knew their names.

"Escape," he told them. "Live to finish the fight."

There was a moment of hesitation, in which 'Kaeromee wondered if they would dare defy him, but one by one the runes went dark. Soon he was completely alone in controlling the ship.

_As it should be. There remains only one thing to me_.

He called up the manual controls and surveyed the damage. The core was leaking plasma but the fuel cells damaged by the attack were now floating in the gravity well. With any luck, some of the Brute ships would blunder into them. As it was the Jiralhanae fleet had stopped firing at him, but several of the smaller vessels, run by all-too-eager Brute Ship Masters, were attempting to close the distance in hopes of destroying the escapees. Gersha knew that not all of the ship's crew would make it, but he delayed the inevitable as long as possible.

Was he doing the right thing? It was strange to him, for these thoughts to come so calmly now, of all times. At his end, he wondered about his life up until this point, what these actions here would mean. Should he have attempted to flee sooner? Should he have surrendered? Perhaps he should never have volunteered his services to the Arbiter, but in that case, would another ship, another Ship Master, have done as well? Would he have done better? He had never been much of a philosopher, preferring to instead resolve his dilemmas on the battlefield.

_I will never know the answer_, he consoled himself. Some fuel cells remained intact, more than enough for this last action of a doomed Ship Master: firing the attitude thrusters, he oriented himself towards the planet, aiming for a large island off the eastern coast of the African continent. Without the primary engines' force to help him resist against the pull of the planet, the gravity well had already captured him and was yanking him from the sky he loved so dearly.

"Luck be to you, Arbiter," he said, reciting to no one in particular the final canto of a long-forgotten poem told to him by his father. The viewscreens turned red, then white, and then blanked out from the heat of reentry. "But, as for me, I continue on to Paradise." The holographic panel began to waver as the halls outside his bridge began to howl with the voice and fire of a true devil, the natural forces of the universe reclaiming into energy that matter which had been its own from the beginning.

Gersha 'Kaeromee stood, arms crossed, facing the bow of the bridge as white fire enveloped him.

_To Paradise!_

* * *

The Slipspace pursuit had dragged on for several hours now, but the Flood ship remained ever in front of them. Though technically within the strictest definition of weapons range, Rtas 'Vadumee was hesitant to open fire; combat in the alternate space was notoriously dangerous, as the omnipresent eddies and flows often distorted the effects of plasma fire. Reports existed of the shaped projectiles arcing back and destroying the very vessel that launched it.

So, until they were much closer, the newly appointed Ship Master would hold back.

He activated the communications rune. "Status on our escort?"

"They are matching our pace, Excellency. The Ship Master of _Beloved Oath _wishes that I inform you they could push their engines harder and pull ahead, to act as a forward scout."

A grin rose on the aging Sangheili's face. "A noble sentiment, but it would be futile. We will require our weapons at full power when we emerge in order to purge the Flood."

That he would be commanding a ship of his own, let alone a battle group, had been a dream Rtas 'Vadumee had given up on a long time ago. His father, Lyos 'Vadumee, had been a Fleet Master at the end of his career, a decorated and celebrated war hero from the subjugation of the Jiralhanae. The old Sangheili had predicted to his son by way of transmissions home that the Brutes would be resistant to Covenant teachings for a long time to come, but he had been wrong: if anything, they had embraced the new faith with uncanny zeal, even going so far as to edge out the Sangheili in their devotion.

The Elite Ultra wondered what his father would think of the current situation, had he not succumbed to disease of the lung only a year ago. How ironic, he thought, that the two species' roles were now reversed.

"Ship Master, there is an anomaly."

Snapping out of his thoughts, Rtas keyed the radio. "What is it?"

"A large gravitational disturbance ahead is distorting Slipspace beyond its normal boundaries," the navigation station replied. "If we wish to navigate it safely, we must drop out of the alternate space until we are clear of its influence."

"What of the Parasite's ship?"

"It is preparing to drop out as well."

"Then prepare for combat," the Ship Master said, curling his hand into a fist. "When we emerge into normal space, we shall burn the Flood from the face of the universe."

When the _Purity of Spirit _dropped out of Slipspace, accompanied by its three escorts, Rtas had expected a large planet, but his eyes were met with a beautiful crimson nebula a scant few lightyears off of the bow of his ship. There was nothing about a nebula that would affect Slipspace, except for perhaps any stars that had already formed within, leaving Rtas wondering what had so affected their path, but it was then that he saw it: a large distortion. Stars were bent far beyond their normal spherical appearances, all of space seeming to warp around a location off to port.

"Navigation, what is this?"

"Initial readings indicate a super-massive black hole in this region," the Sangheili replied. "Its gravimetric distortion is reaching through the folds of the dimensions and condensing Slipspace around this location. Had we not exited, we would have been trapped within subspace until our drives failed."

Rtas felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, but kept his composure. "And the Flood ship?"

"It skirts the event horizon, but is still beyond the edge of the black hole itself."

"Very well. All ships, move in for the kill! Weapons, ready plasma volleys to fire on my mark. Stagger our attack with those of the cruisers." The formation of ships closed in on their target, waiting until it entered extreme weapons range before firing. One by one the magnetically-shaped blobs of blue-white plasma were hurled from the vessels' lateral lines, arcing though pre-calculated trajectories towards the object requiring destruction. To Rtas, there was nothing more beautiful or heavenly.

However, a complication quickly made itself known. The torpedoes became distorted, quivering in the void as the magnetic fields became erratic. Some became twisted, banking off in unplanned directions, looping themselves into the black hole; the others simply dispersed, the guiding fields having collapsed. Within seconds, their lethal attack had become nothing more than a pithy light show.

"What is the meaning of this," he growled.

"It appears we have underestimated the effects of the black hole, Excellency," said tactical. "The Parasite seems to have positioned itself within a field of effects in which our weapons are incapable of working."

'Vadumee's mind raced. "Can we follow them in?"

There was a pause before navigation replied. "It is possible, Excellency, but we do not know what effects this field may have on our ship. More than our weapons may malfunction within that maelstrom."

"It is a risk we must take. Plot a course to follow closely behind the Flood ship, maximum speed. We must burn it before it navigates through and continues its journey."

The four ships assumed a tighter formation and plunged towards their target, taking care not to stray far from the _Purity of Spirit_. None wanted to become trapped beyond the event horizon. All remembered stories from their respective war colleges of what happened to those trapped within black holes, different versions of the same horrifying story, and not one of the Ship Masters present wished to transform from flesh and blood into a cautionary tale for cadets.

At maximum speed, however, the battle group clearly had the advantage. The Flood cruiser seemed to be operating under partial power, not going as quickly as it could; and with its larger plasma core, the _Spirit _caught up to it quickly.

Rtas watched as the target came comfortably within weapons range. "Status of weapons?"

"No ill effects yet, Ship Master."

"Charge lateral lines, prepare to fire torpedoes on my mark."

As he kept a wary eye on his target, he felt the deck rumble oddly beneath his feet. "Excellency, there is an anomaly in the plasma lines."

"What?"

He heard a muted thump. An alarm rune preceded a panicked shout from tactical: "Breach! We're experiencing a plasma overflow in all lateral lines! It is spilling directly out of the generator!"

Rtas swore. He feared there would be some drawback to approaching so close. His mind raced to come up with a solution. "Shut down the generator, vent all excess plasma directly out from the lines!" Almost immediately the ship was surrounded by a turbulent blue light as the coils dumped their energy into the void around the black hole. The plasma curled towards the spatial distortion, moving with unseen eddies and whorls. "Status?"

"It worked," the tactical officer said. "Excess plasma vented into space."

The weapons station reported in. "Plasma weapons inoperable, Excellency. With the generator disabled, we cannot form or fire torpedoes."

The Oracle hovered about the bridge, unreadable. Rtas wondered what it thought of the present situation, or indeed if it even thought at all. Was it sentient? Not long ago he would have attributed its erratic behavior to it being of a higher plane, a guide left by the Forerunners. Now he thought that perhaps the construct had gone a little crazy during its isolation.

"Oracle," he said, "can you assess the situation?"

"Certainly." It hovered down to his level and studied the readouts. "The severe gravity distortions render most normal space attacks laughably inadequate. Do you possess a level five anti-gravimetric field or better?"

Rtas thought about it and decided he had never heard of anything like that. "No."

"Unfortunate." Suddenly it fired a blue beam from its eye that pierced the holographic controls hovering nearby. Rtas jumped back out of shock and was about to attempt to physically stop the Oracle until the beam ceased and the construct moved back slightly. "I have reconfigured your low-yield laser weapons with a standard gravity correction algorithm. It should counteract the effects of the high class gravimetric object nearby."

At this, the Ship Master was puzzled. What good could the pulse lasers do? Even if they were no longer affected by the black hole, they were a light weapon at best. It was difficult to get close enough to cause any real structural damage; at the range between the two ships currently, the best he could do was peel back some armor after the shields were penetrated. Of course, that was with the lasers at standard power.

Rtas quirked a mandible and activated the weapons rune. "Status on the pulse lasers."

"There was what appeared to be a system glitch, but all seems as it was."

"Run a diagnostic."

There was an audible scoff. "What use are pulse lasers? We cannot purge the Parasite like that, even if we were to disregard the black hole."

"Run the diagnostic, Shipman."

The officer grumbled. "Yes, Excellency." There was a pause as the computer calculated the status of the pulse laser system. "All is well within the system. What are your orders, Ship Master?"

"Divert power from the shields and plasma stability systems into the pulse laser network."

Another pause. "From _all _of the plasma stability systems?"

_Oh, right_. "Maintain minimum safe power on the plasma core." That could have been disastrous. Rtas was reminded he was still a novice Ship Master with minimum experience.

"Very well, Excellency. It is done."

"Tactical, what is the status of the target's plasma drives? Have they powered down their generator as well as ours?"

It took a second for the tactical officer to respond. "No, Excellency. Their systems are powered and active, they are simply not using their plasma channels."

"Good. Weapons, target the starboard plasma channel of the enemy ship." He waited a heartbeat. "Fire."

On the forward screen he watched as a concentrated stream of protons lanced from the belly of his own ship toward the Flood. The normally blue beam had an odd violet tint that worried him for a moment, but such concern evaporated as soon as the laser struck the enemy. It tore through their shields in seconds and pierced the hull, dragging itself across the armor and slicing deep into the vessel. Moments later the starboard side of the vessel erupted as the plasma channel exploded into space. As the gravity-assisted lightshow flashed into and out of existence the ship began to list to port. The blasts increased in intensity and the ship was pushed further and further into the event horizon.

Rtas held his breath. "Tactical," he said, "status of enemy vessel?"

"Hold on, Excellency," came the other voice, just as tense. "It is... gone! Beyond the gravimetric threshold!" Rtas exhaled in relief, watching as the Flood ship's engines sputtered, attempting to regain control of itself as the gravity pulled it in further.

"Is this satisfactory for your 'containment,' Oracle?" Rtas asked.

The Oracle bobbed in place and hummed for a moment. "I suppose," it said, sounding sullen. "It will do, but the Flood has been known to be incredibly resourceful even in such situations. To leave the ship here unguarded is invitation to disaster, as history has shown. If only we could have recovered the Index..."

"You speak the truth, Oracle." He called up the communications officer. "Open a channel to the _Cruel Augury _and send the following message: remain on watchtower duty in this sector and heed the activities of the Parasite."

Navigation came up next. "Ship Master, where shall we go to next? Back to the Quarantine Fleet?"

"Yes, set course—"

"Ship Master!" Rtas's eyes snapped to the communications rune. "Incoming distress signal!"

"From the Flood?" That could be problematic. If another Covenant vessel were to come to the rescue, the Flood may find a way out of the gravity well and hijack another ship.

"No," said the communications officer. There was a foreboding in his voice that put Rtas on edge. "It comes from Sanghelios."

* * *

Oriné hadn't slept all night, but he watched the sky grow lighter with the coming dawn. The sun still hadn't risen, but the air hummed with life as it awoke, even in this desolate battlefield.

There was more, however. The Sangheili had noted that the wind had changed direction suddenly and violently, and the temperature had risen steadily over the past few hours. _They are glassing this continent_, he thought as the Brutes roused themselves from sleep and stood, preparing to move out again. Oriné wondered about his fate: moving on foot, he would be a large impediment to their progress. Had he been in charge, he would have ordered the captive executed, but so far despite the beatings they seemed to have no desire to kill him. But that could change quickly.

Gnaelus sauntered over and grasped his restraints. "On your feet, dog," he said, dragging him onto his hooves. "We are moving."

Suddenly he heard the sound: a low whine. _A Phantom_. It appeared above the rooftop, held station for a moment, and then moved out over the street. The Jiralhanae processed out, Gnaelus dragging Oriné behind him. Outside they rendezvoused with a small contingent of Grunts and Jackals. The Sangheili immediately caught sight of Rurut but gave no indication; he didn't want to draw attention to his friend.

One by one they ascended up the Phantom's gravity lift; once inside, Oriné was forced into an uncomfortable kneeling position in the corner for the duration of the ride. It didn't last long, and soon he was forcibly shoved out the side and onto the deck of a Covenant ship. He fought the urge to grumble and moan about his treatment; in dealing with Brutes, he had learned that being vocal about discomfort only encouraged such behavior.

"With me," Gnaelus said, once again pulling him up and shoving him ahead. With the Jiralhanae guiding him from behind, he found himself being led through familiar corridors towards the command deck.

_I suppose the Chieftain is acting as a Ship Master now? _He mentally scoffed. _How droll_.

The doors leading to the bridge parted and Oriné was pushed through. Around him buzzed activity, several Brutes manning holographic consoles that had been brought in and called up for secondary functions. He almost laughed. Clearly they didn't understand the intricacy of using the runic internal communications system. _Perhaps it is too complicated an idea for them._

On the raised platform stood a Brute in much heavier armor and a grander headdress; it had intricate carvings all over its surface laced with gold, but the main color of the armor was that of a deep crimson. It shone with a newness that Oriné had never seen even on Sangheili combat harnesses.

But the Brute himself was very old. He had chipped yellowing tusks and long silvery-grey fur around his face, some like-colored tufts poking out from joints in the armor. It wasn't as stark a white as Tartarus, but significantly lighter than most Jiralhanae furs that he knew. Perhaps such coloration was tied to his age.

Regardless, Oriné realized who he was as soon as he was stopped at the edge of the ramp. "Bracktanus," he hissed.

The Chieftain regarded him stoically, eyes sliding over Oriné's armor. "An Ultra?" He beckoned for Gnaelus to bring the Sangheili forward and the soldier obeyed, hauling him up to the top of the raised platform. He inspected the name emblazoned on the harness more closely. "I was told you had been in command of the expeditionary force, Commander 'Fulsamee," he said in a rough voice. "I was also told that you had died in the feedback explosion."

Oriné would not let himself be goaded. He stood straighter and adopted a reasonable voice. "Many did," he said, "including many of the warriors under my watch. But such was the responsibility of Regret, not myself."

Bracktanus backhanded him. The world reeled under the blow, but Oriné managed to keep himself steady. Shakily he stood, not as steady as before but he struggled to adopt the same formal stance as before. The Chieftain growled. "You should speak with more care about the noble dead," he said.

Oriné's eyes went wide. "A Hierarch is dead?"

"Two," the Brute corrected. "The Prophets of Regret and Mercy both perished at the second Halo."

The Sangheili tried to keep the shock off his face but was unsuccessful. A second Halo? Two High Prophets assassinated? Suddenly he wondered if Gnaelus had truly been mistaken about another Arbiter at all.

He shook his head clear. Much had transpired in his captivity indeed, but answers would come later. "What of the Prophet of Truth?" he asked. "Is he safe?"

"He is on his way here in the Dreadnought to oversee the activation of the Ark. We await a transmission from him now." The surprises kept coming. The Dreadnought had been deployed? It had not seen action since the War of Fortune; for it to be wrenched from High Charity would require an incident of significant proportion.

And if it had left, then what of High Charity? Without the delta-shaped craft powering it, it would be helpless. Suddenly a new wave of anxiety washed through him. Exactly _how much _had changed in so short a time?

"Chieftain," one of the Brutes around the bridge spoke up, "we are receiving a transmission from the Dreadnought."

"Bring it up," Bracktanus ordered. In the middle of the command deck a life-size hologram sprung into life, depicting the Prophet of Truth sitting in his gravity throne. "Your Holiness," the Chieftain said, bowing, "how is the journey?"

"I draw nearer," the Prophet replied. "We have passed the fifth planet in this system. How fares preparation?"

"We have cut off the head of the human leadership. With their prime center of command destroyed, their forces will be unable to muster a proper resistance. The planet is ours."

"Excellent," said Truth. His eyes flickered to Oriné. "And what of this one?"

Gnaelus stepped forward. "A prisoner we found in the streets, High Excellency, near the structure the humans fought so hard to defend. We believe that was their command structure."

The Prophet gazed at Oriné for a few moments. "Commander 'Fulsamee, it is a surprise to see you still live. When Regret sent his first transmissions from the new sacred ring, your name was included on the list of the dead. We had begun plans for a period of mourning before the betrayal of your race."

Betrayal? "You are too kind, Your Holiness," Oriné said, kneeling on the floor and bowing his head. "I am unworthy of such consideration."

"How is that you survived?"

"I am shamed to say, Excellency, that I was captured by the filthy humans. My dropship had been outbound away from Regret's carrier after we were given word that he planned to make a jump. I was intending to set up a base camp elsewhere on the continent but the Phantom was hit by the feedback shockwave. I was knocked unconscious, and the humans came and took hostage any survivors."

"How many survivors are there?"

"I know only of myself and my sub-Commander, Rurut."

"Why is it that you are still alive?"

Oriné grimaced. If the Prophet found out that Rurut had given the enemy any information, the Unggoy would be put to death instantly, despite the knowledge that he had been drugged. "The humans had somehow ascertained that I was acting commander for the expeditionary forces on the surface, perhaps through intercepting our transmissions. They wished to torture me for information."

"Did you give any?"

"No, Holy One. Through the strength of my tongue and the divine will of the Forerunners, I gave the humans nothing."

The Prophet grew silent and Oriné looked up. Truth was sitting back and appearing to contemplate the Ultra. Oriné felt his gaze, sharp and piercing, cutting through his soul. He dare not shiver for fear of upsetting such an already delicate situation.

As his fate was pondered, Oriné decided to take a chance. "Your Excellency, if I may, of what betrayal do you speak? What has happened between the Sangheili and the Covenant?"

"Do not question the Prophet!" Bracktanus was poised to kick the Elite Ultra in the face, but a gesture from Truth stayed the blow.

"It is a fair question," he said, leaning forward and looking intently at Oriné. "Commander, I must solemnly inform you that your kind has forsaken the teachings of the Forerunner and turned against the Covenant and its people. In a brash display they declared civil war and began slaughtering the innocents upon High Charity and several colony worlds. To cement their heresy, they turned their fleets upon the Jiralhanae, allowed the Flood to take control of the holy city, and took action that directly prevented the Great Journey from taking place. In doing these wholly unforgivable actions they have been excommunicated and must be brought under reign before they create any more havoc."

Oriné's mandibles hung open in shock. He could not believe it. War with the Jiralhanae did not come as a surprise, but civil war? Slaughtering innocents? Stopping the Great Journey? Giving High Charity over to the Flood? Such lunacy could not have been of Sangheili design.

Yet the evidence was all around him. The Jiralhanae now commanded the fleets and the troops, in place of the Elites that had once known such roles. The other clients acknowledged the Brutes as military superiors, and the High Prophet of Truth, Voice of the Covenant, had said the Sangheili were cast out of providence. Oriné's entire race was disgraced and dishonored. Shame fell around him like cords of steel and he felt as if his limbs were bound.

Quickly a flame of realization sprung up in his mind: this was why the Hierarch questioned him so. His loyalty and motivation was suspect. No matter the madness of his species, the one constant he had known all his life was that of the Holy Crusade of the Covenant. His righteousness must not be questioned. "Your Holiness, the Sangheili may have fallen from the graces of the Gods, but I remain ever your humble and devoted servant. I am a warrior of the Covenant, first and only, and I know my place on the Path. Do not doubt my faithfulness."

Truth nodded somberly. "Well spoken, warrior," he said, "but words are the tools of heretics as well as heroes, especially given the history of your Lineage. I am afraid that such commitment will require a sacrifice of the flesh." The hologram turned and nodded at Bracktanus. The Chieftain dug into a satchel hanging at his belt and produced an oblong object hidden by his massive hairy hand, while Gnaelus undid the restraints binding the Elite Ultra's. He stepped over to Oriné and offered it in his open palm: the hilt of an energy sword.

"Take it," growled the Brute, and Oriné seized it in his hand. He admired it briefly: ten Forerunner symbols had been carefully carved into the material, much as with other such weapons, but on this were runes of beauty and poetry. A truly noble Sangheili had once owned this blade.

He looked up at Truth. "Excellency?"

"To prove your continuing loyalty to the Covenant," the Prophet intoned, "you must cut off your hand."

Oriné blinked, uncomprehending. "Y-Your Holiness..."

"If you do this, you will be again a member of the Covenant, a holy warrior crusading for the Great Journey. If you do not, you will be condemned as the rest of the Sangheili and struck down here, to forever wander the afterlife without knowing the smooth stones of the True Path." Truth sat back in his throne. "You must choose."

It was strangely quiet. The entire command deck had ceased their activities to watch as Oriné was made to decide between salvation and condemnation, but that was not the reason for unfamiliar silence. Instead, inside his mind, it was very calm. Usually in times of such crisis there was a great tumult in his head, a cacophony of deliberation and speculation, but now there was only resignation.

He thought of his past, his twin sister, Fulsa. She had been condemned as a heretic, punished and killed because of it, and he remembered the hells he had walked through afterwards to regain his family's honor. He had spilt the lifeblood of a dear friend to again claim his Lineage's place on the Great Journey; that day, he had vowed to never allow himself to fall into such a place of disgrace ever again, so that he would never have to make such a sacrifice.

Unconsciously he had activated the blade. It hummed in his right hand as he looked to his left. His race had forced this new sacrifice upon him, not he. It was the Sangheili who betrayed the Covenant, not him, not his sister. If he did this one thing, perhaps he could convince others to join him for their own salvation. Perhaps not. No matter what, his place on the Great Journey, the goal the Sangheili had striven for over the past eleven hundred years, would be guaranteed.

He looked up at the expectant face of Bracktanus, the cold and stony eyes of Truth's hologram; in his mind he imagined Rurut, his constant companion through battle. Would he suffer if Oriné hesitated now?

Finally his eyes rested on his left hand, outstretched in front of him.

_One more sacrifice._

He raised the sword.


	4. Landfall

**Author's Note: After you finish reading (or before, if you want) please swing by my profile page and vote in the poll. I'm considering changing my pen name to one that I've been using more often across the Intarwebs, and I'd like to know what you think.**

* * *

Chapter 4: Landfall

The Phantom bucked and shook under the Arbiter's hand, but the craft stayed on course as it descended violently through the atmosphere. Through the screen, he could see flames had engulfed the dropship, but the sensor readouts still functioned perfectly, allowing him the chance to guide the dropship in through a computer-determined flight path.

But more problems than visibility lay ahead.

The Sergeant came into the cockpit. "What's the word?"

"No one is pursuing immediately, but there is little doubt in my mind that we will be investigated," the Arbiter replied, assuming that phrase had been an inquiry about the situation. "With no proper authentication codes we will be targeted for destruction by air patrols or any interceptors nearby. Somehow we must reach the ground. Where is your command structure in this area?"

The human frowned and scratched at the short black hairs on his chin. "Couldn't say. I'll talk to the Commander and find out if she knows anything." He turned and left the cockpit. The Arbiter returned his strained attention to the controls. The fire had disappeared from the screen, but now the dropship's sensors were detecting several Brute-controlled anti-air defenses and many more requests for identification.

Just then the Sergeant returned with the Commander, stepping up to the pilot's seat. "Scan this radio frequency," she said, handing the Sangheili a slip of paper. "Our backup plan was to include a transponder on the ground to be taken to wherever base camp was designated. If we're in range, this signal will take you right to where you need to go."

The dark-skinned male looked down at the controls. "Can you dodge those?" he asked, pointing at the anti-air indicators.

The Arbiter glanced back at him. How did he know what the symbols meant? "I can certainly try," he said, "but it has been many years since war college, and I haven't flown a dropship myself in about as long." With the activation of a few runes, he dispelled the computer-projected flight plan and put his hand over the globe that manually controlled the Phantom's travels. "Return to the bay and secure yourselves as best you can."

As soon as they were gone, the Arbiter banked hard to the left and accelerated. Warnings and final warnings sounded over the Battle Net, but the Arbiter quickly shut it off. With one hand guiding the ship, he entered the frequency the Commander provided into the radio scanner and activated it.

Nothing happened. Grumbling curses, the Arbiter weaved again, noting the lock alarms flashing across the board. It would take some skilled maneuvering, but he was confident he could get away from most of the batteries taking aim. They used magnetics to shape the plasma into a lethal and accurate beam, but in doing so forfeited the ability to guide the projection in flight. It was harder to dodge the final product, but at least once that was done he didn't have to worry about it turning back around to try again.

The Brutes opened fire much sooner than anticipated. Apparently they had fewer qualms about shooting down a possibly friendly unidentified aircraft than the Sangheili, but the Arbiter had expected as much. He dived, the first two shots coming from somewhere to port and passing cleanly over the Phantom. Immediately he began a roll and banked to starboard, avoiding a shot from the rear. Seconds later the craft bucked as a near-miss disrupted the local air flow and scorched the color from the hull.

_Too close. _He changed his approach, diving to skim the ground, passing scarcely two meters over the tops of the savannah grasses. Objects could theoretically slow the beams, and being so low meant their targeting radars would be less reliable, but it was a stop-gap measure at best. If he could get out of range of the batteries he would be safest.

Just as he was trying to plot the easiest course, the radio scanner began pinging. It had picked up the transponder signal the humans were using and finally he had a direction: north-west-west.

More to the point, it was out of range of the plasma batteries.

He turned hard, spinning the Phantom around more than one-hundred-eighty degrees and kicking up a large cloud of sand. He heard muffled thumps and shouts from the troop bay as the Marines slid around, but could spare no thought of comfort; lock alarms were sounding again and radar reported a flight of Banshees inbound. He pushed the throttle to full burn and rocketed over the surface of the world.

In a straight race, the Banshees could never keep up, but at such speeds his maneuvering options were becoming more and more limited, leaving him vulnerable to the anti-air fire. To compensate he began a random zig-zagging motion, doing everything in his power not to fall into a pattern. Around him plumes of molten rock erupted, indicating the fervor with which the Jiralhanae were attempting to shoot him down. By now they must have realized the Phantom was under Sangheili control, though they couldn't know its true passengers.

The outside range of the batteries was rapidly approaching and their shots seemed to be a lot more desperate. Only one thing was preventing the Arbiter's relief was a looming tree-line. He'd have to pull up at the last second to avoid the incoming fire.

At the moment of truth, he slammed back and shot up; as he did so, the last of the batteries' projections lanced through the air, one slicing neatly through the starboard wing. The Phantom bucked with the impact but the Arbiter leveled it out as quickly as he could. He turned to look back into the bay. "Are you unhurt?"

The Sergeant arrived first, helping a disoriented Commander along. "Just a little shaken up," he said. "Don't you have some of those gravity doohickeys here in the ship?"

"Yes," the Arbiter replied, "but if I had activated the dampeners it would have affected the handling." He gave a quirk of his mandibles. "You would then not be capable of criticizing my flying, human."

The Sergeant flashed his white teeth, but the Commander had recovered. "Have you found that transponder?"

"We are closing in on it now..." Suddenly there was an alarm. Startled, the Arbiter glanced down, realizing too late it was a lock alert. He looked up just in time to see two contrails streak up from the treetops.

* * *

During the procedure, Oriné 'Fulsamee chose to remain conscious, though with plenty of anesthetic; his view of what the Healers were doing was slightly obscured by his own chest and their bodies, but he made no particular attempt to see. He didn't want to; that wasn't why he wanted to stay awake.

His mind clouded by drugs, the Elite Ultra could still understand the severity of what he had done. There was less concern for his lost hand, though he did comprehend that loss, and more sorrow for his greater decision. In siding with the Prophet of Truth, he knew he had betrayed his entire race. It seemed that all Sangheili had been involved with this heresy. Had any besides him chosen to remain loyal? Was there another in the universe who shared his burden of perfidy? He doubted it. His life had always been a cruel joke perpetrated by the Gods and lengthened to ridiculous proportions.

But was it wrong? Truly? The Covenant had been always constant in his life, always the one unfaltering thing. Facing his death on the battlefield, watching his sister be tortured, living through the horror of Halo, all of it had been made possible knowing that no matter what the Covenant would survive and persevere. The Covenant was eternal. It was the Sangheili who were fleeting.

_So shall I walk the halls and declare myself of the Covenant race from now on?_

The bitter sarcasm in his own mind caught him off guard. The last time he had grappled with such inner turmoil was during and immediately following Fulsa's trial. For so long he had endeavored to repress that part of him, force it and its heretical thinking deep inside his soul. Destroying it had proved impossible, so all he could do was bury it and keep it down.

Perhaps it was the renewed inner conflict or the drugs, but he felt his doubt rising again.

_The last time I was driven to such lengths of monologue, I was drugged as well_.

No, he resolved. He would not do this to himself again. I banish you, and I will banish you again and again, so that when the Great Journey begins the Forerunners will see I am a powerful and loyal follower. They will see this and forgive not only my own sins, but those of my family.

_So be it._

His mind grew quiet.

* * *

It took Rtas 'Vadumee a few hours to calm the panic amongst the ships. One of the Ship Masters had been born and raised on Sanghelios, and came within a hairs-breadth of defying orders and jumping immediately. After a taxing discussion that wasted too much time, Rtas was able to get him to calm down, but in truth his own hearts were pounding. The thought of the home world under attack... no, too much; he had to stay focused.

"Send word back to the quarantine fleet," Rtas commanded, "but leave explicit orders that they are not to break formation under punishment of death. We will proceed to Sanghelios and reconnoiter out the situation. If reinforcements are needed, we will send for them."

"Yes, Excellency," communications replied. There was no hesitation. Perhaps the Shipman who manned the Battle Net was not from Sanghelios? One of the colonies, maybe, or just an extraordinarily strong-willed warrior. Either way, Rtas was glad for the calm head. It helped him clear his own.

"The remainder of us shall go. The _Cruel Augury _must remain."

Suddenly the ship-to-ship communications signal lit up. "Ship Master 'Vadumee, I must protest!" It was the Ship Commander left in charge of the _Augury_. At some point the Ship Master for the vessel had decided to remain loyal to the Prophets, and for his decision he had been executed by the command crew. The replacement was very young and brash. "We must all make due haste for Sanghelios! Do not leave my ship behind while you leave for glory and battle!"

Rtas growled. "You must remain vigilant for the enemy, Commander. I have every reason to believe that the Flood is capable of finding a way out of that trap." He glanced up at the Oracle, who was meandering about the bridge. "I would not tread on your honor lightly, warrior, but this is far more important than rushing to the aid of our brothers. Keep vigil here."

"Slipspace capacitors charged, Excellency," reported navigation. "_Holy Fire _and _Beloved Oath_ are prepared to follow us."

"Engage drive slavery protocols and make ready for jump."

"Drives prepared."

"Take us home."

* * *

It was a blissful darkness that yielded to the horrifying pain. For a moment, Maka 'Fulsam raged against what he thought was the intruder, trying to force it away from wherever it came, but all too soon he remembered that the pain was familiar and the darkness foreign and frightening. He didn't know which he preferred, but duty summoned him. With an inner strength that surprised even him, the Elite Minor pulled himself into consciousness.

First thing he saw was stabbing light, but it dulled and he saw it was filtered through something... leaves. Leaves that were high up above him. He was on his back, staring up at the sky, but it was alien somehow. It felt strange in his bones.

Suddenly a shape passed in front of the sun and the leaves. His eyes focused and he found himself looking up into the face of a hero.

"Are you all right?" asked the Arbiter.

Maka grunted. "Fine," he said, endeavoring to push himself up onto his elbows. "Pain will pass." He glanced around. "What happened?"

"We were shot down by the humans' automated defenses," the hero said, offering his arm. Maka reached up and seized the Arbiter's elbow, appreciating the assistance. "It was likely a unit left in the jungle to ward off their foes. There was no way for it to know we were not enemies."

His vision now unhindered by shock, the young 'Fulsam looked around. It was indeed the jungle, though not as thick as the ones he had known to exist on Sanghelios. Light sprinkled in from the trees above, reflecting off the cool greens and vivid browns of the foliage; when the wind blew, the effect was that of a kaleidoscope of natural wonder. He heard a few birds chirp cautiously, likely disturbed by the crash. All of it seemed much younger than counterpart forests on his home world, and he found himself wondering why that was. Had it been a recent expansion of the forest? Perhaps later he would find out.

"'Fulsamee!" At the shout he looked up and saw Major 'Tahamee gesturing for him. "We are moving on!"

"Yes, Excellency!" Maka began fumbling through the wreckage looking for his weapon, but a light cough interrupted his efforts. Turning he saw the Arbiter holding a plasma rifle out to him. "Thank you."

The Arbiter nodded and walked off. Maka watched him for a second, but turned and jogged over to the Major. "'Fulsamee, we must continue on foot to the humans' stronghold," 'Tahamee said. "Their commander estimates it to be several kilometers to the northeast. We must be swift; Brute patrols will come to check the wreckage and find evidence of our survival."

N'tho glanced over at the humans. The Arbiter was conversing with the commander and the dark-skinned one. "What of them?"

Wearing a full-face helmet, it was impossible to see the Major's facial reactions, but the disdain in his voice was nearly palpable: "I suppose we will have to take point if they have any hope of surviving long enough to justify this alliance."

"Like hell!" The Sangheili turned to the source of the voice, the human sergeant. "We know these jungles better than anyone, especially you lizards!"

'Tahamee's shoulders betrayed his agitation. "I have been on my share of human worlds," he growled, taking a few steps forward and ducking his head. It was an aggressive posture. "They cannot all be so different."

Several of the humans tensed visibly, hands even going for their weapons. Both the Arbiter and the human commander looked alarmed, but the sergeant only smiled. "We'll take the lead. You boys can relax and enjoy the scenery." He looked over his shoulder. "Murdock, get up here! You're on point!"

One of the humans grimaced. "Aw, c'mon Sarge, let the squid-faces do it!"

"Did that sound like a request, marine? Move it!"

N'tho chuckled and turned to Maka. "It seems like the humans choose their commanding officers much the same as Sangheili." The young 'Fulsam allowed himself a smile, but saw 'Tahamee's posture. He had heard the subtle dig at his command.

As the human soldiers took up their formation the Sangheili fell into line behind them. They progressed through the jungle, Maka keeping his eye on the right flank. However, he could not help his mind wandering. He had never been on a human world, or for that matter, any world other than Sanghelios or Jisako. Though they looked very similar, there were marked differences. Leaves were broader, but then this world orbited only one sun; they would have to be in order to catch enough light. On Sanghelios the leaves tended to be smaller, thinner, since they had to avoid the radiation of three stars at once. They needed far less light. Much of the vegetation was thick as well, which suggested they were acclimated for cold seasons as well, of which Sanghelios didn't have as many.

But the breathtaking sight of soft light filtering between the branches was universal. He would have gone on enjoying it, but he heard the snapping of twigs. Glancing around, he couldn't place it. He made a motion; the other Sangheili stopped in their tracks, but the humans kept walking. N'tho hissed at them. They turned, saw their postures, and also hunkered down.

"You're supposed to let us know if we have to stop," hissed one of the humans.

"I did," Maka replied.

The human held up a closed fist. "This! This means stop!"

"No," said Maka, holding up his hand with curved fingers, "_this _means stop!"

"Quiet, both of you," the sergeant said. He looked at Maka. "Why did you stop?"

"I heard something behind us. I believe the Brutes are following us."

Another human scoffed, holding up a small hand-held device. "Impossible, I've had my motion tracker open the whole time. If they were behind us, we would have picked them up."

'Tahamee shook his head. "Motion trackers can be fooled, especially in an environment such as this with life all around. I would not lend credence to any such readings." He paused. "What is the range on your device?"

"Ten meters."

'Tahamee looked back at Maka, who shook his head. "The sound was much further out than ten meters, perhaps thirty."

The human looked at him. "You can hear something thirty meters away?"

N'tho smiled. "At that distance, hearing the breaking of foliage is simple for a Sangheili."

"Enough," said the Arbiter. "If they are following, we must have a plan to ambush them when they follow." He looked at the human commander, who looked like she was out of her element: crouched among deep green plant-life in a grey jumpsuit, holding a pistol that looked much too big for her hands. "I am afraid I must ask for an imposition."

* * *

Oriné still could not quite understand. He stood in the healing room, dressed in his armor, staring at his new "hand." It was a manipulator based on the same technology that the Hunters had used before their latest armor upgrade, but much more scaled down. There were two thumb units and two simple finger units hooked up to his nervous system, able to receive his general signals but incapable of refined dexterity. He watched as the digits opened and closed, making a whirring noise as they did so. It had been incredibly stripped down, just metal and servos.

Opened and closed, and he couldn't feel it.

Heavy footsteps thundered up behind him. "Feeling well?"

"Well enough." Oriné turned, looking up at the face of Bracktanus. "The Prophets require sacrifice, and I give of my flesh. Such is the will of the Forerunners."

The Brute gave a chuckle. "Only one Prophet now, Sangheili."

Oriné's brow furrowed. "Is he not to appoint successors for Mercy and Regret?"

"The Great Journey will not wait." Bracktanus gestured behind him. "His Excellency awaits you on the bridge. He is to give you your new assignment."

The Elite Ultra fell into step behind the chieftain, but his mind was suddenly occupied. According to the degrees upon which the Covenant was based, there was required a triumvirate of leadership; if any of them fell, the first order of business was to replace him. _And don't the seven rings begin the Journey?_

Why, after so affirming his faith, did he feel even emptier than before?

He still couldn't feel his hand, but he heard it whirring away.

Once they were on the bridge, Oriné saw the waiting hologram. Immediately he felt himself change on the inside. His uncertainty was crushed beneath a sense of duty. He strode up the ramp to the command deck and knelt before the hologram. "Holy One," he said, "I am at your summons."

"Rise, Commander 'Fulsamee," the Prophet said, and Oriné did so. "Your faith is affirmed and your devotion is as clear as a crystal bell. You are now and forever a glorious weapon of the Holy Covenant."

"Your words flatter me, Your Excellency."

Truth nodded. "The humans are proving difficult, but none more so than those still on the continent of our interest. Their soldiers hide among the trees and mountains, striking at us when our backs are turned and disappearing into the shadows. You have experience facing the humans on their own territory, even under these circumstances. I would have you take command of the Bracktanus's ground forces and weed out these heathens for destruction."

"I shall be—"

"Excellency!" Bracktanus snarled. "I have many chieftains on the ground able to drive out these vermin! They need only time. I object to this choice of undermining my command!"

"Be silent, Bracktanus," Truth said, calmly but with force. "This situation requires finesse, and while I acknowledge your combat prowess, Commander 'Fulsamee has years of combat experience on the front lines against a myriad of scenarios." He turned back to Oriné. "You will proceed to the surface and take command of our forces on the human continent of Africa."

Oriné saluted and turned to leave, but suddenly he had a thought. "Your Excellency," he said, turning back, "I have a request, if you would be so kind as to grant it."

Truth cocked his head. "What is it, warrior?"

"There was a Grunt in my companionship when I was discovered on Earth. He has been my subordinate since my battles on the Sacred Ring. Could I request he be my aide?"

The Prophet stroked his jowls. "I see no harm in this. He will be transferred to your care. Bracktanus, remain a moment, I have things to discuss with you."

Now the Elite Ultra left, feeling like he had gained nothing.

* * *

From his position, Maka could see the humans as they huddled over the commander. She was lying on her back on the ground; the others fussed and made exaggerated gestures and kept their voices slightly louder than a stealth situation would have required. Were it a genuine situation, their breach of conduct would indeed be fatal.

But they were bait. Maka gripped his plasma rifle tightly, though he could not see it. He and Major 'Tahamee were cloaked and waiting in the brush for their pursuers, who were hopefully being drawn by the sound of humans in distress and the tracks left behind by the group as they traversed. Above, in the trees, N'tho 'Sraom waited; elsewhere lay the Arbiter, uncloaked but hidden from sight.

It wasn't long before he heard the clumsy crunching of a search party. Approaching slowly and with purpose were three Brutes in full combat armor—unlike anything Maka had ever seen—and a clutch of six Grunts. The Sangheili held their breath: the Jiralhanae had keen senses, and if they made any sound they would be revealed far too soon.

A tense moment passed, the Brutes drawing closer to the humans, though they silenced their approach. They apparently wanted to take the humans by surprise.

The Arbiter made the first attack, springing from the ground and impaling one of the Brutes with his sword. Maka began firing, blue plasma bolts cutting through the air. One caught an unwary Grunt in the head, sending it toppling to the ground, but the rest served only to act as a diversionary tactic. The Brutes ducked and pointed their unfamiliar weapons at the direction of his fire, but Maka didn't disengage his active camouflage, instead crouching low and slinking a few feet off to the side. The air was full of white-hot projectiles, firing foot-long spikes that burst through the trees and carved up the ground. Maka had never seen anything like them, but he wasn't willing to wait around and find out what they could do to his unshielded flesh.

With one down and the Unggoy running, the Arbiter turned to the next Brute, but never got the chance to complete his attack. Three green trails fired from nothingness and punctured the Jiralhanae's helmet, the creature collapsing to the ground like a tree felled. Somewhere, Usze 'Tahamee was probably giving himself a silent and invisible smirk of victory.

One remained, but just as Maka sighted the creature it fell to the ground, writing under some unseen weight. Its head whipped from side to side accompanying heavy cracking noises, but the Brute lashed up with a fist into empty air. It stopped suddenly and an invisible weight struck the ground beside him. The beast began to crawl aside just as the staccato clatter of human weapons sounded, filling the air with tracers. Rounds cut through the Grunt ranks.

The Brute continued to crawl, staying below any stray rounds, but it bumped headfirst into a pair of combat boots. It looked up just in time to see the barrel of a large human pistol before a small sun blossomed and existence was no more.

The Sangheili warriors deactivated their active camouflage and looked at the human commander, who calmly holstered her weapon and looked at the Arbiter. "Thanks for the help," she said, giving a wry smirk and turning back to her men.

N'tho leaned close to Maka. "I think perhaps humans choose their commanding officers much better than we do."

"Discipline," growled 'Tahamee. "We must continue our journey to the humans' command center. Nightfall approaches." Glancing in the sky, Maka took note of the orange tint in the clouds; perhaps that was the indicator of coming darkness on this planet. On Sanghelios, the clouds became violet.

The group continued, and as time passed, Maka looked up and, seeing the blues and crimsons cast by the setting sun, for a moment thought he was back on Sanghelios, training in the wilderness as an adolescent. His father had been shipped out, his brothers already deeply embroiled in the war, so he had been forced to train with a friend and his father...

* * *

_Maka Sam held his wooden dueling rod in one hand, using it to steady his balance, as he watched Alna 'Yonomee and his son, Kasa. They fought fiercely. Kasa, though not yet ready for Jisako, was a couple of years older than Maka. Alna had already promised to continue to train Maka until he went to Jisako himself, and following the traditions he had read in seminary in the mornings, Maka had taken to calling the elder Sangheili by the name 'Yonomai, that of a master swordsman._

_Alna only grunted whenever the little one used that name. He had been a Zealot prior to his retirement to start a family, so had been authorized to use his sword in combat on the battlefield. Maka was never sure if he had ever done so._

_Finally, the father-son sparring match ended with a vicious blow to the side of Kasa's head. He staggered under the attack and fell to the ground, clutching his mandibles in pain. "You did well controlling your center line, my son," Alna said, "but you consistently fail to cover your flanks. Had I so wished, I could have struck each side of your head."_

_"I am sorry, father," Kasa mumbled between swelling mandibles. "I will do better."_

_"You must, if you wish to survive a world as harsh as Jisako and the Covenant beyond it." He dismissed Kasa to the side and looked at Maka. "You are next. Step forward."_

_The young Sangheili did as he was told, taking his place in the clearing and adopting the standard defensive posture. At this point Alna would look over his stance and correct any weaknesses he saw, but this time he did not. Maka did not know if he had properly fallen into the position or if Alna was simply not informing him of any errors._

_Usually Alna demanded that Maka attack first, as the only worthwhile offense is one launched quickly, but this time it was the elder warrior who made the first move. He advanced at a steady pace. Maka took a step back, to give himself more time to adjust... but in an instant Alna was upon him, clearing the distance with a leap, and he struck hard. It was a difficult blow to deflect, especially when pitting his childish muscles against those of a fully developed warrior. It was a miracle that he was able to divert what he did, but it wasn't enough to spare his head from the wrath of the rod. His mind dazed, Alna wasted no time in driving the end of his weapon into Maka's stomach. The youth doubled over, coughing violently and trying to keep the spots of darkness from overtaking his eyes._

_"You have much longer a journey, Maka," said the adult, towering over the prone child. "But you have more time in which to make it. Rest for a moment, and we will resume with the lesson."_

_Maka nodded and dragged himself over to Kasa, who was himself just barely recovering from his own beating. "Your father is a harsh teacher," wheezed the younger Sangheili._

_"Indeed," replied Kasa, "but I fear he is much harder upon you than I."_

_"Why?"_

_Kasa looked thoughtful for a moment. "My older brother and yours both went to Jisako at the same time, but Irut died there and Oriné did not. I am not saying my father holds a particular animosity towards your Lineage, but perhaps he is enacting his inner sorrow upon your person. For that, I am sorry."_

_Maka was silent for a moment. "Do you miss your brother?"_

_"Yes, very much," replied Kasa. "Do you miss yours?"_

_"Of course, but I feel that your grief must be much greater than mine. I never knew my brothers, but they are still alive and fighting for the glory of the Covenant. Yours has been shuffled off to Paradise to await the coming of the Great Journey."_

_Kasa chuckled. "I have always felt it was the other way around."_

_Maka looked at him, feeling confused._

_"I know where my brother is and what he is doing. He was always a patient soul, and so he is likely meditating and waiting for his day. Perhaps he even spares a few moments to watch over my progress. But your brothers could be anywhere in the galaxy, facing any threat. They may be alive or dead and you will not know for some time. You may never know for sure. That, I feel, is worse than my family's plight."_

_Maka had never considered it like that before. Orna and Oriné had never been an active part of his life, so he had never worried much about it; and the same was true for his father. However, he had heard his mother softly weeping in her room at times, and perhaps only barely he understood that she was in pain from her grief._

_He didn't know how to feel._

_"Maka!" His thoughts were shattered by the voice of Alna. "Come, I will show you how to resist an opponent who overpowers you."_

_Rising, the youngest of the 'Fulsam Lineage forced himself to ignore the pain in his chest._

_Training would continue._

* * *

After night fell, the four Sangheili and six humans hunkered down. The night was warm and wet, feeling much like home. Maka feared relaxing too much and opted to remain in his full armor. Major 'Tahamee had removed his helmet to enjoy the fresh air.

Everyone stood in a rough circle, with the Arbiter kneeling on the ground and the female commander—Keyes, Maka was trying to remember to use her name—sitting in a perplexing and visually painful "cross-legged position." He and N'tho both had gaped at her flexibility; no Sangheili would be able to adopt such a position without causing multiple fractures. More and more the Sangheili were learning to respect the humans' perceived shortcomings as points of strength as opposed to weakness.

"How far are we from your lines?" the Arbiter asked.

Keyes shook her head. "I'm not sure. Without being above the tree line our radios can't pick up the transponder well enough to follow it at this range. I know we're going in the right direction, but it might be days before we find where we need to be."

"That will not do," said 'Tahamee. "Were we not attacked by one of your missile pods? Should not a base be nearby to control it?"

"It was set to automatic," she replied. "It was just a turret we leave behind to attack and confuse the enemy, make them think we have troop strength where we don't and keep them looking in the wrong places. The people who dropped it there could be kilometers away by now."

The dark sergeant—Johnson—grimaced around a long and brown _thing_ he held between his teeth. Maka had seen one before, but the tip had been on fire and it had been giving off a very pungent aroma. "What's your hurry, big guy? Got a hot date we don't know about?"

Though the tone was unmistakably confrontational, the Major looked more confused than anything. It was the Arbiter, however, who spoke: "Major 'Tahamee's urgency is well founded. That patrol was only a simple response, meant to check the wreckage for signs of life and snuff them out. Now that we have escaped into the jungle they will send better equipped teams, most likely Kig-Yar, to hunt us down."

"_Kig-Yar?_" One of the other human soldiers made a face. "What the hell is that? Another alien we don't know about?"

Johnson turned to the youth. "Jackals, lunkhead; those bird-brains got mean eyes and ears. They'll track us and cut our throats in our sleep."

The Arbiter nodded. "Though the Brutes are possessed of keen noses, Jackals are far better assassins in this environment. They know how to conceal themselves and will strike with ruthlessness. I suggest we rest here and set up watches." Turning, the Sangheili hero looked at the two Minors. "You will take the first shift while the Major and I take the second."

The human sergeant turned to his soldiers. "Murdock, O'Brien, you're first up with me. Anders and Morelli, switch with these knuckle-draggers later."

Commander Keyes looked up. "What about me, sergeant?"

Johnson looked down. His voice took on a quality of tenderness, though it did not lose its edge. "Due respect, ma'am, but you haven't slept for a minute since we followed Regret to the second Halo. Now that we're back on Earth you should get some rest while you can and let the grunts do the grunt-work for a change. You'll be back to commanding soon enough." He flashed that improbably white smile again. "Don't worry about me, I can handle a double shift."

The female looked disquieted, but acquiesced. She moved to place her back against a tree while another human offered her a small packet of rations. All warriors, Sangheili and human alike, spread out to enjoy a quiet meal before taking their places for the night. Maka reached for his supply harness and withdrew a ration tube. With practiced ease he pulled off the top and placed the open end at the entrance to his gullet. As he began to drain it, he heard a strange sound to his left.

Turning, he saw a human with an unknown look on his face. "Oh God," he said, clearly sounding disgusted, "that looks even worse than what we get."

"Something less appetizing than MREs?" Another human shook his head. "Now I've seen everything."

Maka was unsure about the comparison, but agreed with the sentiment. Ration tubes were usually reserved for emergency situations when there was no other alternative. Traditionally the Sangheili hunted while on the battlefield, making use of local fauna to feed themselves, but this mission required a low profile. Their pursuers may be closer than they realized.

N'tho, himself having finished gulping down his own tube, looked at the human. "And what is an 'Em-Are-Ee'?"

The human held up what he had in his lap. "This thing." He turned it over; the two Sangheili drew closer, so they could see it. It was a silver and black pouch, larger than the human's hand but smaller than theirs. Printed on it were human markings, indecipherable alien script that was either too small or too jagged to read. As they watched, the human peeled it open and examined the content.

"Great," he muttered, and looked over at the first soldier. "O'Brien, what do you got?"

The other opened his own. "Looks like... chicken, beans, protein bar, water."

"Got some coffee, trade you for the protein bar?"

"Sure." The two humans exchanged their objects, one trading a small square package for an even smaller pouch.

Maka cocked his head and let his mandibles flex as a sign of confusion. "Your meals are not uniform?"

"No," said the human. "The romeo-echo-mike-foxtrots say we need variety out in the field, but most of us just want something that tastes good." He unwrapped his protein bar and took a bite, pointing at Maka's supply pack. "What about that tube thing? Any good?"

N'tho snorted. "Hardly. Processed paste designed for nutrient intake? This slop is worse than what comes out of an Unggoy food nipple. I would give my arm for a full meal of kashalai, honeyed spice-nut, and some good wine."

"Wine sounds good."

Another human spoke up. "Any candy bars in this group?"

"If there were, I wouldn't share any."

"Me either."

"C'mon guys, I saved a couple thermite grenades from _In Amber Clad_, I'll trade you."

"No one has candy bars!"

The commander spoke up. "Anyone got vegetables? I'm hankering for some vacpacked vitamins."

"Right here, ma'am."

"Thanks. Take what you like."

The Sangheili looked on with no small amusement, even the Arbiter showing the whisper of a grin, before the Major's glowering features stepped in front of the two Minors. "Take your positions," he said. "We will change shifts in three hours."

Maka nodded, slightly crestfallen but grateful for what breaks he could muster. He and N'tho settled in for their shift, eyes open for Jiralhanae. The noise behind them died down as the Marines finished their meals quickly and three of them moved off to their own places.

For a moment, the young 'Fulsam couldn't help but wonder: what would his brothers make of all this?

* * *

Oriné looked over the armor apprehensively. He glanced back at the Brute behind him. "Bracktanus expects me to wear _this?_"

Gnaelus nodded. "He feels it shall save you from friendly fire, if we meet any of your kind in combat." It was true: so long as Oriné wore it, his profile would look nothing like that of a normal Elite. The armor looked much like the combat armor currently worn by the Jiralhanae, consisting of overlapping plates of alloy over a stiff dermal suit. There were variations: the torso was slimmer than that of Gnaelus's armor, perhaps allowing more flexibility. Overall the design seemed lighter, more complimentary of a Sangheili anatomy. A pauldron sat only on the left shoulder, however, the right being covered in light sheets of armor buckled on by bands of leather.

Then there was the matter of the headdress. It was a rising, swooping design that did little more than give him extra weight in the head, reminding him more of saitarelé, holy dancers, than of an actual warrior. He made a silent vow never to wear it, even if a sniper's eye was trained right on his temple.

The right bracer seemed okay, but the left was far bulkier. Upon closer inspection, the Elite Ultra found out why. "There is a Jackal's energy shield mounting on the left gauntlet," he said. "What is the purpose behind this?"

"The ship's armorer had little time to construct this suit to the specifications the Prophet has ordered. There was not enough time to transfer a personal shield generator, only to mount a rudimentary power source and hook it to a point defense gauntlet. With the added power, it should be able to deflect any non-explosive projectile and resist plasma for quite a time." Gnaelus gave a smile full of jagged teeth. "Surely with your grace, Excellency, you will be able to survive."

Oriné frowned. It was dishonorable among Sangheili to use Jackal shields. They were meant for a lower caste, unfit for use by warriors qualified for personal energy shields. However, there was little alternative as the Elite Ultra doubted he could cannibalize his own armor's shield and active camouflage system. It probably wasn't compatible.

He gave in, slipped off his old armor and dermal suit and changed into the eye-sore. At first it was difficult to put on, requiring more latches than the Elite model and having them in unfamiliar places. He found it restricting and uncomfortable, but after walking around, he found it somewhat accommodating, though clearly not custom fit to his body. There was higher mobility in his right arm—what was probably meant as his weapon arm—and considerably less in the arm that bore the shield. He activated the gauntlet and looked with some disappointment at the shield. It was a standard Jackal's shield, perfectly round and large enough to cover a Kig-Yar body entirely but not so for a Sangheili. There were two firing notches opposite one another, but given the design of the armor he doubted he could put them to much use.

The only other thing of note was the color of the armor, a bronze sheen on every piece. It was not a command color that had come from Elite experience, but he had been told it was a color of seniority worn by chieftains. Much as he was loathe to think of it, those would be his peers now.

Emptiness made itself known. Was he truly the last Covenant Elite?

Excusing himself to test the armor's functionality, though more simply intent to get away, he retrieved his energy sword and stepped out into the hall. Rurut was waiting for him, wearing a new breathing rig.

"How is your new armor, Excellency?"

Oriné sighed. He didn't have the emotional strength to object to his friend's honorifics. "Overbearing and shameful. How is yours?"

"Fine. When do we descend to the planet?"

The Grunt was unusually to the point. Oriné eyed him, but gave no indication of suspicion. "Soon, I believe. Bracktanus wishes us to accompany a new wave of troops down to the African continent."

Rurut nodded and fell silent, walking with Oriné as they traversed the ship. Jiralhanae stared at him as they passed, clearly not understanding why. Mouths fell agape, snarls of outrage were heard, but even though no one saluted, no one attacked either. A Sangheili never would have come across that armor by accident; it was a gift of the Hierarchs, and it must be respected.

Looking at the crowds around him, Oriné could understand their disbelief. He had never observed Brutes do anything but be trouble for the Covenant, and finally seeing them in action was strange, but ultimately underwhelming. He knew they had been removed from front line duty for their race's failure on Harvest, at the beginning of the war, but even then he could not imagine them performing military operations. They were too blunt and vicious, unable to outwit their foe, only to overpower him. Like the Kig-Yar who were too bloodthirsty to make effective snipers, the Jiralhanae would make poor commanders. They cared not for the subtlety of a battle maneuver, the sublime cunning of misdirection, deception; they only looked for blood.

_How long will the Covenant last standing on the pillars of Brute strength, when the foundation of Sangheili wit and determination kept it together for hundreds of years?_

He feared the answer.

* * *

Morning felt like it came too early. Maka 'Fulsam felt the slight increase of heat on his face, driving him from sleep. He cracked an eye to the light creeping in through the trees. A beautiful sight, to be sure, but not a welcome one.

Quietly and with as much speed as they could the group packed up and moved on.

As they trod through the morning jungle, Maka did his best to keep his wandering mind in check. But try as he might, he couldn't keep himself from continuing his admiration of the human world. The cool greens and rich browns that permeated the environment were soft against his strained eyes and made him feel almost sleepy, but in a manner that affected his soul more than his body. Peaceful, he supposed, was the proper word for it.

He finally negotiated with himself: five minutes of calm, and then it was back to work. His brain agreed, and sunk into a pleasantly murky relaxation. Lights, colors, native life flashed across his vision, and with each he felt himself more and more at home on this planet.

Finally he became aware that his five minutes were up, and with no small amount of regret he became aware once more.

Ahead, the Arbiter and Keyes discussed something in hushed tones. The Marines and the Sangheili had arranged themselves into something like a formation: the humans made a rough pentagonal pattern with their commander at its core, while the Sangheili took up a wider four-point square defense. With energy shields and comparable weapons, it was clear that the Elites made a better defending force than their strange new allies. Maka himself occupied the rear-right area, with N'tho to his left, and Major 'Tahamee and the Arbiter up front.

The Arbiter turned around. "We have a direction."

"We're picking up a weak transponder signal," Keyes clarified. "It's to the northeast, but where that is exactly I don't know. It's our only option."

'Tahamee nodded. "Then it is there we shall go."

"Let's move out!" Johnson yelled. They adjusted their direction and began their journey towards the new objective.

It was a long trip. By sunset of that day, both the Marines and the Sangheili were completely exhausted. With pure luck they had found a highway, cracked and broken from bombardment and with the empty husks of boxy ground vehicles. It was raised several feet above their heads. Aware of the risk of snipers and artillery, they stayed with the tree line and moved carefully. As the sun kissed the mountains in the distance, they came across a sign, scorched but with clear human letters. Maka didn't know how to read, but the Arbiter did.

"I do not know its significance," the ceremonial hero said.

"Nairobi," Commander Keyes said. "It's the closest city nearby."

N'tho scanned the horizon. "Over there?" With a nod of his head, he indicated several smoke columns, black and rising. Several of the Marines swore in earnest.

Keyes checked her transponder again. "That's where the signal's coming from," she said with an exasperated sigh. "All right, we have to carry on."

"With respect, ma'am," Murdock said, "things look pretty FUBAR over there. I don't think they'll benefit from us being there."

"We're not leaving our people to die, soldier."

"But—"

The sergeant stepped up to Murdock. "The commander is _lightyears _above your pay grade, private. You listen to her and you don't give her lip, understand? She says we're goin' to the city, we're goin' to the city. No 'buts' about it, clear?"

Murdock gulped. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

"I am loathe to interrupt," Major 'Tahamee suddenly interjected, "but there are incoming contacts."

All eyes snapped to the elevated highway. From this angle, the group could barely make out the shapes of vehicles and personnel making their way down the road. Johnson brought up his binoculars, and after a moment passed them to the commander. Her lips pursed into a thin line. "That's us," she said. "Looks like we're beating a hasty retreat."

Johnson turned around. "O'Brien, you still have those signal flares?"

"Sure thing, sergeant." The soldier pulled out a small pistol and loaded an unfamiliar round into it. Maka wanted to watch, but the Arbiter waved him and the other Sangheili further back into the trees.

"These other humans may not be aware of the situation," he said. "We shall remain hidden until such a time as we can explain."

O'Brien stepped out from beneath the tress, angled the gun upwards, and fired. A bright white flare pierced the sky. The Marines on the bridge reacted instantly, taking cover by the guard rails and pointing their weapons over the side, scanning back and forth for the source.

"Identify yourselves!" one shouted down.

Johnson stepped out, hands in the air. "Survivors from _In Amber Clad_," he called out. "Who are you?"

A pause. "First battalion, Twenty-Fifth Marines, fourth division," the voice replied. "Are you really out of _In Amber Clad_? We thought she was confirmed lost with all hands."

"You can see how true that is. We have Commander Keyes with us."

At her name, she stepped out of the brush. "We have to regroup with the main force in this area," she called up.

"That'd be us, ma'am," the Marine above replied. "We had a command structure set up in Nairobi, but the bravo-kilos pushed us out of there and just started bombing the shit out of the place. Pardon my language," he added.

"Where are you heading?"

"A base Lord Hood set up outside of Voi. We're regrouping there, be happy for the company."

"Sure thing, soldier."

"I'll tell the el-tee you're down there. Meet us at that service ladder further down."

The convoy above started moving, and the commander turned back to the Marines crouched in the bushes and the Elites further back. "Marines, you come with me. Arbiter, you and your men should follow us at a distance and be ready to join us when we call you."

A few minutes later, Keyes climbed up the ladder and reunited with the division out of Nairobi. Johnson went with her, but the other Marines stayed behind in the low shrub with the concealed Sangheili.

Maka inched closer to the human he understood to be called Anders. "How well will we be received?"

"Honestly?" She tapped her finger against her chin. Maka didn't know what that could mean. "I think they'll be so desperate for a little help they won't mind you split-chins."

"Truly?"

She shrugged. "I dunno."

Waiting in the bushes was agony. He glanced around, trying to see if his fellows were as nervous: 'Tahamee's helmet was impassable, as always, and the Arbiter looked alert but composed. Only N'tho seemed like he was nervous as well, glancing around and tapping at the radio unit in his helmet. Before he could ask what he was doing, he heard a shout. Johnson was leaning over the railing, waving for them to come up.

Anxiety climbed Maka's throat. The Sangheili let the Marines go well ahead of them, holding back just in case there was any treachery. N'tho approached Major 'Tahamee. "Excellency, I believe we have a problem."

"Indeed," the Major growled. "We may be cut down if we are too careless. Make sure your shields are on."

Maka cocked his head. "Climbing ladders is difficult enough, but with shields activated?"

'Tahamee shot him a look. "Then activate them when you reach the top! Don't leave yourself defenseless and at their mercy!"

"I disagree," Maka replied. "We must show them that we are willing to trust them."

"Save your arguments," the Arbiter cut in. "We must go."

The ladder waited. There was a reason Sangheili architecture favored gravity lifts and stairs: their double-jointed knees made climbing ladders difficult and awkward. In some cases, when Jiralhanae had been controlling ships in the Covenant, they had replaced some gravity lifts with ladders in order to embarrass their overseers.

The Major went first, followed by N'tho and Maka. When Maka reached the top, he saw the Marines gaping at him. He stepped away from the edge of the ladder in time for the Arbiter to come up, which caused several of the human soldiers to recoil.

"Jesus," muttered one.

"They're even uglier up close."

"Why is this a smart idea again?"

Maka's eyes slid over the crowd. The only Marines that stood close were the ones they had traveled with through the jungle; everyone else was keeping their distance. They were on edge. How could he blame them? He and his comrades must have appeared as monsters. Consciously he made himself still, so as not to make any sort of movement that they might perceive as threatening.

At last one human stepped forward. "I'm Lieutenant Mosley," he said. "The commander has given me a quick rundown of your situation, but, uh, I wish there was more time to talk. We're in a hurry to get out of here and fall back to our command center before the Covenant catch on and follow us."

N'tho stepped forward. "It is too late for that, human," he said. There was an urgent pressure in his voice, but no panic. "The Brutes are already on this very highway, hardly two kilometers behind."

Whispers and groans echoed throughout the assembly of Marines. Major 'Tahamee turned to the Elite Minor. "How long have you known this?"

"I tried to tell you, Excellency," replied the younger Sangheili. "I was able to access the Brutes' communications. There is an armored column approaching from the city."

"Wait," one Marine cut in. "Brutes? Is that what those things are?"

"Christ, we were fighting _these _split-lips up until a few weeks ago."

The lieutenant turned around. "Settle down. Let's focus. We need to keep ahead of these guys."

Commander Keyes frowned. "We also can't let them find the base. We need a distraction." She turned to the Arbiter. "Any suggestions?"

"We have nothing effective enough to halt an armored column," the Sangheili hero replied. "Aside from our active camouflage systems, I see nothing with which we can gain the element of surprise. Our tactical situation is poor."

The Major turned to the human lieutenant. "Do you have any explosives we could use to destroy this highway and halt your pursuers?"

"No," he replied, "and even if we did, I wouldn't destroy it."

Keyes cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

"What if there are other forces following? With all due respect, ma'am, I don't want to cut off our own people just because we're in a hurry."

"You're in more than a hurry, lieutenant, you're rushing back to regroup. The Covenant is hot on your heels and there is no indication that any other friendlies made it out of Nairobi."

"Ma'am, we can't leave people behind. They'll be trapped in there with the bravo-kilos."

"This is an order, lieutenant. Call in an air strike and blow this highway."

The lieutenant was silent for a while, apparently thinking it over. Maka watched on with curiosity. After this long, any Sangheili soldier would simply have been shot dead and replaced. This manner of command seemed very inefficient, but it was clear that such disobedience could only go so far.

"Carson," the lieutenant finally said. "Get Charlie-November on the line and tell them to drop this highway. Fire mission, danger-close. Copy?" As one Marine pulled out a handheld device and deployed an antenna, the lieutenant turned to the Sangheili. "I don't know how well this whole alliance thing will go down, but stay in the middle of the convoy, okay? That way we can all keep an eye on you."

The Arbiter nodded. "Very well, human. As a show of faith, we shall do as you ask."

The convoy continued, and moments later the ground shook. Turning around, Maka could see pillars of fire and smoke spearing into the sky, two black delta-wing shapes retreating as lances of plasma flashed across their silhouettes. It pained him to see war on such a beautiful world, but what pained him more were the looks on the Marines' faces. He was still new at reading human facial expressions, but he knew apathetic, distant looks of people who had seen too much death.

War was tearing into their homeworld, and they could hardly care less.


	5. Sanghelios Burning

Chapter 5: Sanghelios Burning

Ship Master Rtas 'Vadumee nervously paced the command deck of the _Purity of Spirit_, watching the instrument panels with a keen eye; they had been in Slipspace for nearly half a day as his ship and the other two in formation, _Beloved Oath _and _Holy Fire_, raced to Sanghelios. The distress call had been worryingly vague, simply demanding that all ships return to the homeworld to defend it from attack. It didn't take much imagination to figure out that the attack was likely being perpetrated by the Jiralhanae, but how the battle was going or what the stakes were couldn't be known.

It filled the new Ship Master with dread.

He keyed the navigation rune. "Status update. How far out are we?"

"We have nearly arrived, Excellency," came the voice on the other end. "It will be less than an hour." There was a pause, which made Rtas feel like the conversation was done, but a moment later the shipman's voice came back: "Excellency, I am… worried."

Rtas felt his mind falter. Up until his recent promotion, he had commanded highly disciplined Special Operations units in battle; the discussion of personal feelings in a duty situation was strictly prohibited. Though he felt the automatic dismissal in his throat, he knew how traumatic a time this was for any soldier. They needed to talk.

"Speak your mind, helmsman," he finally said.

"I know it is not of your concern, Ship Master, but I fear my ability to continue. My mate and daughter recently relocated to Sanghelios. We are from Joyous Exultation, but I insisted that we live on the homeworld if we had the opportunity. I am afraid for them, and I am afraid for myself."

Rtas nodded, though he knew the gesture went unseen. "I fear for our people too, but I'm afraid I do not know fear as you do. I have not had the time to court a mate, nor have I known the pleasure of having a child. But you should not despair, for though you may feel like fear is an appropriate response, you should instead draw strength from the nobler cause which you now serve: fighting to save your mate, your daughter, and your people."

"As you say, Excellency." It wasn't much of a response, but the tremulous quality of the shipman's voice was gone. He sounded determined now.

The Ship Master considered a moment. "What is your name, helmsman?"

"Rha 'Toyuk, Excellency," he replied.

A moment of confusion flashed across Rtas's mangled face. "'Toyuk? You have no military appellation?"

"I have forfeited it, Excellency, for it is a name of the Covenant armada. As we have been betrayed by them, I see no reason to continue to subjugate myself to them."

That was surprising, but thinking on it, he found himself agreeing. Why should they continue to shackle themselves to the Covenant when it had so readily betrayed them? To follow their rules now, even out of habit, was an insult to the Sangheili people and their lost traditions. For over a thousand years the Sangheili had adapted with the Covenant, taking on the aspects that had been determined by the Prophets—by the _San 'Shyuum_—to be better for the unified peoples as a whole. The Sangheili had only been left a few token conventions, and even those had faded with time. Who knew how much had already been totally lost?

Even the term "Elite" was a title of the Covenant. Rtas wracked his brain trying to remember his history, what Sangheili warriors had been called before the War of Fortune. "Domo," that was it. The ranks had been called Domo: Minor Domo, Major Domo, High Domo (Zealot was a rank of the Covenant), and Ultra Domo.

_It is not much_, he thought, _but it is a start. _Eventually he hoped the Sangheili would be able to reclaim all their prides and traditions, over time weeding out the cultural poisons inflicted on them by their years of deceit and treachery. He glanced up at the Oracle, still hovering back and forth, seeming to analyze status panels, and wondered for how long the Sangheili had revered the Forerunners before the Covenant, if they had at all.

Things would indeed have to change.

* * *

Elite Major Toro 'Bodnolee fired out of the high window, feeling the Carbine shake against his aching shoulder with every shot. In the street, the Kig-Yar scattered, a few falling with penetrated skulls and shattered bones. The wounded called out to their comrades for rescue, but the flock didn't respond, fearing for their own lives too much. Allowing them time to suffer, the Sangheili finally put each out of his misery.

_Damnable creatures_, he thought as he pulled back out of sight. His eye—rather, his socket—still felt hot, and with every twitch of his facial muscles he felt the burned flesh crack and bleed, rivulets of his blood streaming down his face. When this civil war had erupted, he had been unshielded and on patrol through the streets. A lucky Unggoy had caught him by surprise and taken his eye, but the creature's luck had ended there.

His remaining eye scanned the room. Within lay what remained of Faithful Unit: Rabu 'Cklovee, Enma 'Gubotee, a critically wounded Ayan 'Tapatee, and the only two Unggoy from their lance who had remained—ironically—faithful.

They were in poor shape. 'Cklovee and 'Gubotee both carried plasma rifles, each of which were only half-charged, and 'Tapatee had dropped most of their grenades when he had been wounded by a sniper. 'Bodnolee feared the warrior's lung was punctured, but none of the survivors here were qualified as Healers, and so he couldn't be sure. They were all hiding in a bedroom, somewhere deep in the Lomak district of the capital, and the wounded Sangheili was laid out on the bed, soaking the silk sheets with his blood. His breaths were short and ragged.

"Have we been able to contact help?"

"No, Excellency," replied 'Gubotee. "The Battle Net is being jammed. We cannot transmit our coordinates."

The whine and thumps of combat nearby sounded in the street. Were it not for 'Tapatee's condition, the Major would have recommended they attempt to rendezvous with whomever it was nearby, but they couldn't risk it. 'Bodnolee had long ago served with the near-dead Ayan on Pearl, back when he himself had been a Minor in Faithful Unit. A chance duty rotation had reunited him with his former squad a few months before this outbreak.

He briefly turned his attention back to the window. In the street, the Jackals had taken up defensive positions around a couple of abandoned Chimeras, but they showed no signs of preparing for an attack. The Major fired the last four rounds of his cartridge at them, ejecting it and loading his last one.

If only he had been with the same Faithful Unit that had been in service on Pearl: the leadership of Olah 'Seroumee, the ingenuity of Oriné 'Fulsamee, and the calming force of Yarna 'Orgalmee. Had they all been reunited, they could have escaped from here. Unfortunately those warriors were gone now, though to where he didn't know. There were conflicting rumors abound, but no one seemed able to check the official records to find out.

"What is the plan, Excellency?" asked 'Cklovee.

"I do not know. We cannot move from this position and we cannot reach our forces elsewhere in the city. All that is left is to hope for a miracle."

'Cklovee looked down at his hands, clenching them into angry fists. The unit knew of his pain: scarcely a month prior he had been Bonded to his mate, a saitarelé on Unifying Faith. It was no secret that 'Cklovee would much rather have been spending time with her, siring a child, rather than trapped in combat on the homeworld. What made it worse was not knowing how far this war stretched: Sangheili, loved ones could be dying on any world, perhaps even High Charity, and they would never know.

Screaming in rage, the Elite Minor grabbed a plasma grenade from his hip, activated it, and hurled it out the window. It adhered to one of the derelict vehicles and sent the Kig-Yar scrambling for cover, but too late: the device detonated and caused the Chimera's fusion core to explode, killing most of the Jackals that had been hiding behind it. One tried dragging itself, legs burned, towards cover, but 'Bodnolee put a radioactive round through its head.

"That was my last grenade," grumbled 'Cklovee, but it was clear he didn't regret it.

'Bodnolee reassessed the situation. "This may be the best time to move, before bolder reinforcements arrive." He glanced back at the upright Elite Minors. "Are you able to carry 'Tapatee?"

They nodded, but as they went to pick him up, the wounded Sangheili raised an arm weakly. "Leave me," he gurgled.

"I will not," replied 'Bodnolee. "We shall find a Healer and get you off-world, to safety."

A rasping, wheezing sound emanated from Ayan that 'Bodnolee suspected was supposed to be laughter. "To safety. Where is… safety? If they can… attack Sanghelios then… there is not much hope… for safety."

"You _will _live," the Major said, walking up to the edge of the bed and glaring down.

"I… will _not_," said the warrior. He shuddered as a coughing fit seized him, blood flying out of his throat. "Not… long for the world… Major. Let me… die with dignity."

'Bodnolee watched the sight before him, the dying warrior asking for one final mercy. Though his missing eye burned with pain, he felt the other beginning to burn with moisture. "You ask too much, old friend. I cannot do this."

'Tapatee was struggling to breathe now. "This home… once was Uko's. You… remember? I loved… couldn't be with me, below… station." His hand reached up and gripped Toro's forearm, barely hanging on. His eyes were unfocused but still found the Major's face. "Only appropriate… I die here."

The broken anecdote fell on the Major like a heavy weight. Uko had been Ayan's love from adolescence, and in childhood they had promised each other that they would bond. But after returning from Jisako, 'Tapatee had found that Uko had come to believe in the provincial castes during his absence. He was of a lower standing, and so she had rejected his courtship.

'Bodnolee looked around. This must have been her family's flat. His eyes settled on his unit. There was not much else to be done here. "Take up positions around the exit and prepare to leave. I will join you soon." Silently, the Sangheili and Unggoy obeyed his command, whether they understood the situation or not. When they were gone, he looked for one last time at 'Tapatee. "Ayan, I could never know a truer friend than you."

"Tell my father of my fate," the dying Elite Minor said, "but… lie to my mother."

Toro nodded and raised his Carbine. "Die with honor, my friend."

The room turned green for a moment, and 'Bodnolee understood the true damage this civil war would cause. But it was too late to stop it now.

* * *

The film of Slipspace peeled back, and Rtas found himself in a whole new world.

"Collision alert!" The Ship Master barely heard the navigation officer. Cruiser and capital ships clogged the space around Sanghelios, filling what little space there was with plasma and Seraphs. Lights flashed into and out of existence, tearing across the void and gouging through shields and armor plating. Hundreds of thousands of ship-to-ship weapons, plasma torpedoes and energy projectors and pulse lasers; and caught below this massacre, below venting atmosphere and churning boiling armor and flashing electron shields, was Sanghelios. Beautiful Sanghelios, virgin Sanghelios, and a fiery death above it.

"Excellency!"

Rtas snapped to. "Bring us about! Tell our escorts to break formation, avoid the heart of this maelstrom! We must be prepared!"

"Ship Master," said the commander of _Holy Fire_, "I cannot tell which ships are the enemy!"

"Neither can I," growled Rtas.

The communications rune flashed urgently. "Ship Master, incoming transmission."

"Source?"

A pause. "It is hard to say, Excellency."

"Just bring it up."

Taking up a full screen on the bridge was a particularly vicious-looking Sangheili, with fresh wounds up and down his neck. He scowled. "Be you friend or foe?"

"Friend. What is the situation here?"

The Zealot cocked his head. "You command the _Purity of Spirit_. That is the Prophet of Truth's flagship, is it not? Give me proof that you are with us or I shall have you burned from sky, traitor!"

_We have no time for in-fighting_, Rtas chided mentally. _Our home is moments from being glassed!_ "I am Ship Master Rtas 'Vadumee, dispatched from High Charity by the Arbiter himself for the purpose of informing our people of the Prophet's treachery." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm afraid that I may be too late."

"Too late indeed. How is it that you came to possess that ship?"

"Can we dispense with the inquisition? There are more pressing matters at hand."

For a moment, the Zealot hesitated. He was likely considering simply doing away with the newly arrived forces to save himself the headache. At last, however, he nodded. "We are uploading the currently known allegiances and battle lines, for what good they shall do."

Rtas was about to comment when the image of the Sangheili's face vanished and was replaced with a detailed battle map. He studied it quickly, disregarding shapes and movements, focusing only on the colors of ally and enemy. Somewhere in a small, dark part of his mind, a voice recited its doubts about his ability to command: he had little to no experience running a ship, and now he was being plunged head-first into the worst carnage he had ever seen.

_Simplify_, he told himself, controlling his breathing and focusing his mind. _You are no master tactician, but it should not take a genius to find a way through the rocks to friendly shores_. Most of the ships that claimed to be allies were taking up a massive spherical defense around the planet, keeping the Jiralhanae out of range of glassing. It was a decent measure, but more and more ships were arriving every moment, seemingly at a perfect one to one ratio of hostile and sympathetic. Here and there were pockets of Sangheili resistance, but most of the fighting was taking place either at the core or the corona of this star of conflict. The only other significant bastion under Sangheili control was the moon Qikost.

_That will be our salvation_, he realized. "Helm," he said, "bring us about on a course toward Qikost. Comm, tell our escort to match velocities with us in bar formation. Weapons, remain vigilant and fire on any targets of opportunity. Refrain from using the energy projector, we do not wish to overtax our reactor."

Acknowledgment runes appeared, but there was no verbal communication. Rtas could only hope that his officers understood the risk and what was at stake, but he reminded himself that they knew better than him. He opened up one more channel. "All troops, stand at general quarters. Be prepared to deploy at any moment. That is all."

* * *

'Bodnolee collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. Only half an hour had gone by, but it had been a harsh run-and-gun battle, his meager unit struggling to find an allied force while keeping ahead of the Brutes. Beside him, Enma 'Gubotee was bleeding profusely from a wound sustained by combat with a Jiralhanae: a foot-long metal spike was jammed into his left shoulder. He clutched a plasma rifle in his good hand. Up ahead, Rabu 'Cklovee spied around a corner.

"The street seems clear," he said in a hushed tone, "but there are many windows. Any one of them could hide a sniper."

The Major looked to the Unggoy. "Go," he ordered, "but stay low and move between cover. Draw their fire so that we may retaliate." He double-checked his Carbine as the two Grunts moved cautiously towards the avenue; he still had five rounds left.

The Unggoy slipped from view, and almost immediately the street was full of green and purple beams. As the Grunts danced from cover to cover, all three Sangheili leaned out and fired. While 'Gubotee and 'Cklovee sprayed the windows with blue plasma, 'Bodnolee chose his shots carefully. Two of his rounds found their marks perfectly, punching through Kig-Yar skulls. One was slightly off but went through the neck of his target, ensuring its eventual demise. As his fourth speared another Jackal's heart, he rounded on his final target when a purple beam slashed from a previously unsuspected window. Toro twitched his head away in time, but the accelerated particles tore through his weapon. With a growl, he threw it to the ground and ducked back behind cover.

As he listened to the Unggoy die, he tried to think of a way out of this nightmare. "Rabu," he said, "what is the charge on your rifle?"

"Eleven, Excellency."

"Enma?"

The Elite Minor shook his head. "Seven. I do not think we have the firepower it would take to clear these buildings."

Toro quickly peeked into the avenue again. It was narrow, not meant for vehicles or large amounts of foot traffic. There was debris strewn everywhere, the evidence of a plasma bombardment, though which side ordered it he couldn't guess. However, lying out in the street were the recently slain Grunts, complete with intact methane tanks.

"Fire on the bodies of the Unggoy," he said, almost detesting the words as they came out of his mouth. Oriné had taught him to treat the lesser castes with respect, but they were dead and he would rather not join them. "Aim for their tanks. When they detonate, rush through and use the cloud of dust as cover."

The two Sangheili nodded solemnly, leaned around the edge of the building, and fired. After a moment, there was a thunderous roar.

"Go!" All three sprinted out at once. Purple trails sliced through the cloud of dust and gas, occasionally hitting an intact pocket of methane and setting it alight in a dazzling distraction. Toro felt like he was running through a galaxy in fast-motion, stars being born and fizzling out all around him. His mind was dazed but his legs carried him forward to safety in a small shop. Seconds later, 'Cklovee and 'Gubotee stumbled in.

"Hard to believe such a gambit worked," mused Rabu.

'Bodnolee nodded. "Search for another exit, perhaps one that leads into an alley. We must find our brothers soon." The two Minors saluted and split up, searching for any way out that did not lead to another sniper trap. Toro himself began to explore, making his way up a nearby gravity lift—by some miracle still functioning—to search the upper floors. It had previously been a domicile, perhaps belonging to the Lineage which owned and operated the store below. Through one door he found a modest storeroom, containing foodstuffs and miscellaneous everyday items; it was likely all inventory for the shop. The next room turned out to be a washroom, with facilities that looked to have been in use when the battle first started, if the half-full bath was any indication. Within, however, was an empty cradle with unused towels draped over the edges. He inspected it briefly, considering it a curiosity, before leaving that room.

As he approached the third and final door, he heard a faint crackle on the other side. His hearts leapt at the thought of finding an intact radio, and he ignored all protocol and opened the door immediately. Only in the moments succeeding did he remember he should have checked for foes, and then that he wished an enemy had been present instead.

Inside was what remained of a Sangheili family. Closest to the door was the body of the male, clutching a deactivated energy sword in his dead fist. There were spots of black, blue, and violet blood all around him that told of a valiant but futile struggle. A deep gash cut his throat and several metal spikes protruded from his abdomen. Toro knelt and bowed his head in respect; the Sangheili had died to keep his family safe.

But just beyond, behind a displaced gel-bed that had likely rested against the far wall, Major 'Bodnolee could see another inert shape. As he approached cautiously, he saw the shape to be female, the mate of the deceased warrior. His stomachs opened and he felt nothing, only emptiness inside him. In the female's arms was a small bundle, wrapped in cloth, also still. It was the right size and shape for the cradle he had seen earlier, but Toro felt his courage fail. He could not bear to lift the wrap to see what exactly the mate—the _mother_—had tried to protect in her final moments.

Footsteps sounded behind him. "Excellency, we have... found..." Enma's voice trailed off as he and Rabu surveyed the carnage. Long seconds of silence followed, as Toro closed his eyes and listened to his heartbeats.

"Jiralhanae monsters," said 'Cklovee, voice rasping.

'Bodnolee had nothing to say, and was spared from attempting by a chirping noise. All three Sangheili looked to the nearby windowsill, where a Lumidex rested in the light. The Major walked over to it and picked it up, scanning the screen. Public warnings were being funneled in and ordered according to the late owner's priorities. Toro cancelled the messages and pinged the main network, feeling hope rising once more. It still had a connection.

He changed the Lumidex's protocols and logged it on to the Battle Net. Suddenly he had access to the movement plans being transmitted to soldiers across the city. "These civilians did not give their lives in vain," he said. "Our fellow warriors are gathering a defensive line around the Council chambers. All lances are to fall back to that position." He set it down and turned to his subordinates. "You have found an exit?"

"Yes, Excellency," said Enma, "an alley system that should lead straight to the Council chambers."

"Very well. Onward." As the Sangheili hustled out of the room, Toro spared a look back at the dead male. _You did not live to see your mate and child die,_ he prayed, _but may their presence in Paradise give you comfort_.

* * *

The atmosphere was tense inside the hangar bay. Operative Kasa 'Yonomee helped get the last of the equipment into a Phantom before climbing aboard himself. Inside was Senior Officer Balask 'Zakamee, as well as the Unggoy Opom and Nunot. He tried not to let his gaze wander outside: through the shielded hangar they could see the passing moon of Suban and the battle which raged above it. All aboard the ship tried not to stare at the ships that tore each other apart, unable to differentiate between who was an ally and who was an enemy.

"Kasa," came 'Zakamee's rumbling voice, "check in with our pilot, make sure he is ready to deploy at any moment."

Kasa nodded and made his way to the front of the Phantom, the door to the cockpit easily sliding open. Inside sat a cobalt-armored pilot, his closed helmet removed as he went through the system check. Turning, he nodded to the newly arrived Operative. "Welcome, Excellency."

The young Sangheili took the co-pilot's seat. "Are we prepared?"

"Yes," said the pilot. His face was round, his skin soft; Kasa's first thought was that he was a novice, but no inexperienced pilot would move his hands so smoothly while under such duress. It was more likely that he had simply never seen combat outside whatever craft he happened to be piloting. With care, he slipped the helmet over his head. "We are ready to launch at the Ship Master's command."

Kasa nodded. "Are you a native of Sanghelios?"

"Not quite," he replied. "I was born on Qikost. My mother and father were both pilots, one for the military and the other for a merchant."

"I am Kasa 'Yonomee."

"Anli 'Rutasee. An honor to be pilot to the skilled Special Operations Blessed Unit."

"Well," said Kasa, "what is left of it."

The Battle Net came alive. "Warriors," said the Ship Master, "prepare for combat! The traitorous Jiralhanae have the capital under siege, and we must break it!"

'Zakamee's voice came next: "Kasa, take us down."

The Operative turned to the pilot. "Do it."

"Yes, Excellency." With practiced ease, the Sangheili at the controls eased the dropship out of the hangar bay, the force-field disengaging just before the nose would have struck it. As the craft exited the bay, joined by others both from this bay and elsewhere, the sapphire globe of Sanghelios came into view. The capital was far into the day-side, but even from here Kasa could see some of the fires burning. His hearts pounded as he thought of his family, trapped in Lomak, fearing the worst.

As the dropship nosed into the atmosphere, the Senior Officer's voice sounded again: "Warriors, your ears. The capital is in chaos, with Jiralhanae and Kig-Yar making a concentrated effort to seize the city. Our brothers have fallen back to a defensible line around the Council Assembly chambers, which is where we are en-route to. Communication is difficult, so stay together once we land. We shall find the ranking Councilor still living and get our mission from him."

Kasa replied with the Unggoy, "Yes, Excellency."

The ride towards the planet continued, and perhaps it was a psychological trick but to the young Operative it seemed to go more smoothly than any of his previous insertions. The Phantom bucked slightly in a cross-wind after the crimson flame of re-entry had faded, but besides such light jostling 'Rutasee seemed to have the dropship well in hand.

However, once they broke through the final cloud layer and began their approach to the capital, the ride was the furthest thing from Kasa's mind.

It was evident even from a distance that the city was a battleground. Pillars of smoke rose from the skyline, distant flashes visible were followed by delayed thunder. Here and there light pierced into the sky where heavy cannons were aimed at other aircraft. The dropships' Banshee escort accelerated, anticipating the looming battle.

Crackling over the radio, the Battle Net was also in disarray. Warriors were screaming reports to stunned commanders, of ground lost and people fallen. Only a few voices were demanding order and discipline, though they were faint compared to the panic that seized the others.

As they passed over the city proper, the Phantoms rumbled and pitched, coming under fire from the city below. Flashes of green erupted around them, anti-air Wraiths unloading their radioactive ordnance at the passing craft. Kasa gripped the panel in front of him in anxiety, suddenly feeling like he was open to the air and just one too-harsh bump away from falling. He steeled his nerves and forced himself to remember his unenviable training, and focused on the matter at hand: saving his home.

The dropships continued towards the center of the city, and attention towards them waxed and waned like waves on the ocean. Banshees screamed about, their allegiances impossible to tell, leaving the troop carriers' escorts to shoot at anything that came too close. The young Operative was even able to spot a few of the older Vampire craft, acting more like aerial artillery than its proper role as an air-to-air combatant, instead pounding the buildings below with fire.

Soon the other dropships in formation broke off, directed to other sites.

"Dropship _Incumbent Glory_ approaches the Council Assembly Chambers," said 'Rutasee on the Battle Net. "Prepare for the arrival of Special Operations Blessed Unit."

"Affirmative _Incumbent Glory_, you are heard," replied the Sangheili controller. "The western veranda is open to receive you."

Kasa watched the city curve gracefully beneath them, the grand steepled hall of the Council Chambers sweeping into view. Slowly the Phantom settled to the ground, effortlessly alighting on the polished stone below.

'Rutasee turned to regard the Operative. "Landing successful, Excellency," he said. "Honor be with you on your mission."

Kasa nodded. "And with you in the skies. Be safe, we will need such an expert hand again."

The pilot chuckled. "So you say!"

Quickly exiting the cockpit, the young Sangheili rejoined Blessed Unit as they disembarked from the side hatches. Together the lance of troops made their way through the ascending and descending dropships as they picked up crowds of civilians and wounded soldiers, and dropped off more warriors prepared to defend their capital. Hatchlings mewled in their mothers' arms while armored Sangheili took up their rifles and marched towards the defense line.

Blessed Unit neared the entryway, where two haggard Honor Guards stood watch. Their armor was scorched and spattered with ichor. At 'Zakamee's approach, they crossed their spears in front of the door.

"What is your business within?"

"We are Blessed Unit, recently arrived upon the carrier _Purity of Spirit_," replied the senior officer. "Our duty now is to find the ranking Councilor and from him obtain our mission."

One of the Honor Guards nodded. "Then you seek the Judge."

Kasa nictitated in confusion. "Was not the position of Judge done away with some time ago?"

"In favor of the Hierarchs, yes," replied the other Honor Guard, who had a significant burn on his neck. "However, in light of their treachery, we have determined to retake the rightful and honorable position."

'Zakamee clicked his mandibles. "And where may we find him?"

The Honor Guards uncrossed their spears. "In the hall, holding an emergency battle congress."

* * *

Faithful Unit had become but a shred of what it once was. At one point, Toro 'Bodnolee had commanded four lances of one Sangheili and three Unggoy each. Now, however, he was reduced to Rabu 'Cklovee and a wounded Enma 'Gubotee. The former fought with a passion unmatched, driven by the uncertain fate of his new mate on Unifying Faith; the latter, though bleeding heavily from a wound sustained by the Jiralhanae's brutal weapons, also remained fevered. It was only from the strength of those two, the Major realized, that he was himself still walking.

He had seen so many horrible sights in a city that had once been a holy and untouchable place. The mangled bodies of women and children, left in the suns to bleach, clothes and flesh tattered by shrapnel and burned by plasma. The fallen forms of Sangheili warriors paved the roads, some having the fortune of dying in battle, others clearly executed in one ghastly fashion or another along the way. Above and behind them, suspended over the alley by cables tied to his arms and legs, one warrior had his stomach split open so his entrails could hang, and his still-breathing body shot by the Brutes below for sport.

It sickened Toro how such a thing could happen. The Covenant had once stood for unity, honor, glory; now all those ideas seemed so far away.

"Excellency," 'Gubotee rasped, "perhaps we should check our bearings."

"Perhaps we should," agreed the Major. "Rabu, take to the roof of a building and locate the direction of the Council's hall."

"Right away, Excellency," the Minor said, crawling through a hole made by a Wraith mortar and into what had formerly been someone's home. 'Bodnolee watched his progress, spying him between curtains on upper levels as he painstakingly made his way up while checking for ambushes and traps. Once on the roof, he watched as the Minor stayed low, trying to minimize his profile in case snipers were targeting him. He glanced around once, twice, before signaling the Major.

"We are on course," he called down. "Ahead lies a causeway which we will need to cross; I am uncertain if the Brutes lie in wait for us, but the area is open."

The Major nodded. "Is there no other way?"

Rabu looked again. "No, Excellency."

"Very well. Return to us and we will continue."

The Minor disappeared from sight. Enma turned to face 'Bodnolee. "What shall we do?"

"The thought of crossing open terrain makes me uneasy," Toro admitted. So far the majority of his casualties had been wrought by snipers; this degree of urban fighting was something he was unused to. It seemed that as the Jiralhanae pushed towards the center of the city, intent on eradicating all the Sangheili they could, they left behind teams of Kig-Yar snipers. Ordinarily the creatures were too bloodthirsty to be effective, not making use of proper distance and cover in the field, but here in the city where four walls and a roof surrounded them and they could be as close as a window allowed, their capabilities were devastating.

"But to reach our objective," he continued as Rabu rejoined them and together they resumed their march, "we must do this impossible task." He allowed a dark chuckle to reverberate in his throat. "I would say that we earn the admiration of the Gods by continuing, but their attention is suspect at the moment."

Nodding their agreement, the Minors remained silent, and the last three survivors of Faithful Unit trudged on.

* * *

Balask 'Zakamee had been in the Council's great hall only once before, when he had received his commendation as Special Operations just prior to joining the Fleet of Particular Justice. Then, he had stood before the assembled politicians, Sangheili filling the benches on his right and Prophets on his left. The quiet clatter of ceremonial armor and rustling of robes had filled his ears, and the tones of the holographic Hierarchs had been almost grating.

Now the hall was a roar of voices, and seemed more natural to the senior Operative than the meek doings of politics.

As he and Kasa entered—the Unggoy had been detained at the door, much to their relief—Balask noticed with small satisfaction that there were few Prophets present, and the only handful in attendance were in shackles and under armed guard.

A voice rang out over the general din, that of the Attendant Speaker: "Presenting Senior Operative Balask 'Zakamee and Junior Operative Kasa 'Yonomee, of the carrier _Purity of Spirit_." Instantly the suspecting eyes of the Councilors were upon them as a hush fell over the hall, all present knowing the carrier's former allegiance. Beside him Kasa shivered almost imperceptibly, but Balask walked on, undeterred.

He stepped onto the speaking dais, Kasa taking a position at the bottom of the short ramp. Seated just opposite but much higher was a Sangheili in battered silver armor, the high crest on his helmet cracked. The Judge was slumped in his throne, clearly exhausted by the latest occurrences, but he nodded a greeting to the Operative. "You have come a long way, warrior."

"Yes, Honored Judge, all the way from High Charity."

"I will spare you from delivering a status report, as it is the duty of your commanding officer and your skills are needed elsewhere. Tell me, where is Commander 'Fulsamee?"

Balask flinched. He had assumed the news had reached here already. "Dead, your Excellency, on the human homeworld. One of the earliest casualties of the Prophets' treachery." The hall rumbled with curses, and out of the corner of his eye the Operative saw a guard savagely kick one of the shackled Prophets.

The Judge nodded somberly. "I was no friend to 'Fulsamee, though my son was. But if we were to dedicate this time to mourning, I fear we would not progress through the matters at hand. If he is fallen, then what of Commander 'Vadumee? Was he not also a command-level Ultra within your Legion?"

"He was," replied Balask, "though by the authority of the Arbiter he has been promoted to Ship Master of the _Purity of Spirit_, and currently fights beside the other vessels above our heads."

More whispers propagated, but this time sounding hopeful. One Councilor stood. "The Arbiter yet lives? We heard of his death not long before this outbreak of senseless violence!"

Before the Operative could address the Councilor, the Judge waved his hand. "We shall not keep Operative 'Zakamee for the purpose of answering questions. In due time a summons shall be sent for Ship Master 'Vadumee, and he will be present to allay our anxieties. For now, however, 'Zakamee is needed for a mission."

Balask bowed. "Whatever the Council asks of me I shall do unto my dying breath."

"Indeed," rumbled the Judge. "We are maintaining a defensive perimeter approximately two kilometers diametric from here, with limited resupply from whatever ships above can spare of their time and resources. However, the Jiralhanae control the majority of the city, and are massing for a push to break our resolve.

"In the Lomak district, we have identified a staging ground for their advance. It is well-defended from the air, and is currently host to over a thousand Jiralhanae. You are to take whatever personnel and equipment the defensive perimeter can spare and eliminate the threat by any means necessary."

"Your will be done, Excellency." Balask bowed lower, then straightened, turned, and left, Kasa right behind him. As he exited, he heard the roar start back up. No matter the situation, he decided, his place was not among politicians. He would live, and die if necessary, on the battlefield.

* * *

As he feared, the causeway was wide open, with many shaded windows looking out over the streets. Toro 'Bodnolee knew that any number of them could hide the snipers he so feared. Though his depth perception was marred by his injury, it was apparent that to any point of safety on the wide, flat stone was at least a fifty meter dash.

He doubted any of them could make that. Rabu 'Cklovee was beginning to show his fatigue, and Enma 'Gubotee was slowly but surely succumbing to his wound. Many hours of fighting through the streets of their home had left all three worn out and demoralized, and it was only the thought of reaching their people to heroes' welcomes that kept them mechanically continuing forward.

Even so, this task seemed daunting. 'Bodnolee could see little other option except for a suicidal run, and never minding the snipers he may collapse from sheer exhaustion. Dejected, he turned back to his comrades. "I see no way across that will not herald our doom," he said, trying to keep his voice level without letting his fatigue creep in, "so it is clear that we must undertake this final test." He knelt and used his clawed finger to begin tracing a vague map in the dust. "We shall use this dodging pattern"—his digit skipped over a large crack in the pavement that warped the map down an axis—"to minimize our profiles on most angles, but we will be unavoidably vulnerable to any snipers at street-level. For such a scenario, vary your height, duck and jump, maneuver as best you can. For any of us who make it, you know your objective..."

His voice trailed off as his eyes returned to the break in the stone. It was heaved, a very prominent bump formed by the impact of a mortar nearby. His eyes followed it as it geometrically turned a corner back into the alley, and in the other direction went almost all the way across the open causeway.

Enma took note of his gaze. "It must have been a Super Shade impact," he mused, "likely back in the alleys, one that created a fault along..." The Minor's eyes lit up as he internally reached the same conclusion. One look at 'Cklovee revealed that he had figured it out as well, and as a group they leapt to their feet, finding their energy renewed by their discovery. Carefully they traced the ever-greater rupture to its epicenter: a collapsed building. In a frenzy they began to grab at the ruins and pull them away, digging deeper and deeper into the shards of stone and metal until finally they reached a grate. With a strength he had thought lost to fatigue, 'Bodnolee lifted the metal obstruction and peered down into the darkness.

"The aqueducts," he said at last. A hopelessly outdated antique of a pre-Covenant time, the city had nonetheless kept some of the ancient tunnels open for posterity. By some luck that made the Major briefly believe once more in the divine, the heat of the Super Shade's blast had gotten into the underground space and made the stone above it swell and crack, revealing its location to the bedraggled warriors.

'Bodnolee looked into the hopeful faces of his two warriors. "Whatever mysteries lie within," he said, "will be much more welcome than the reality of a Kig-Yar's rifle." Taking that as all the authorization they needed, the other Sangheili immediately began lowering themselves into the darkness, followed shortly by the Major himself.

* * *

It was obvious that the suns had begun to set when Kasa 'Yonomee stepped out of the Council Assembly Chambers with his commanding officer. The lowest disc of the clustered trinary star already touched the edge of the city's skyline, which not so long ago had been an indicator of when a much younger Kasa had to return from his play to the home of his parents'.

Despite his best attempts, the young Operative couldn't help but revisit old memories as he gazed at the burning, ruined Lomak before him. He hoped that his upcoming mission did not take him near his old home, lest he be overcome by his emotions.

"Come," said Balask 'Zakamee, breaking the younger warrior's reverie, "we must assess the defenses."

"Yes, Excellency." Kasa fell into step behind the more seasoned warrior, his natural eagerness to learn overcoming his overall somber mood. It was difficult to make the adjustment, he decided, from having the universe so certain and clear to realizing its true state: muddled and contradictory. For centuries the Sangheili had reigned as the Covenant's beating heart, the center for all culture in the Holy Union, and the varied and beautiful architecture of the capital city was testament to that. Now war, that which the Sangheili had revered, had come to a place where they had believed it unthinkable.

When they reached the perimeter, they began their inspection, talking to whomever so happened to command the certain part they were focused on. Most of the defenses were deployable barriers and physical barricades, with sniper towers spread out along its length. Hasty barracks had been erected nearby, so the watchmen of the line could remain close at all times; methane dormitories for the Unggoy had been set up further back due to their explosive nature. Through their investigation, the pair of Operatives learned that though holding strong, most of the warriors were strung out and uncertain, about the fate of their loved ones and that of themselves. From each sector, however, they selected a few Sangheili who were deemed worthy of the task set before them to rendezvous at the armory established by the Council Chambers, to outfit themselves before they undertook the Judge's mission.

Kasa had lost count of the number of candidates they had considered by the time they approached one of the final areas. While Balask conversed with a Major, Kasa's eyes swept around the streets on the other side of the defenses. Eventually he found himself focusing on an open-air, ground-level garden, admiring its fortune in remaining intact, when he saw movement. It was a rapid back-and-forth motion, accompanied by the creak of metal.

"Excellency," he said, just loud enough to be heard, and pointed. With their attention drawn, the warriors at their posts brought up their weapons. Soon the rattling stopped and three shapes emerged, difficult to see in the failing light. Spotlights cut through the encroaching darkness and revealed three battered Sangheili.

The Major with whom Balask had been conversing now stood at the edge of the defensive line, a Needler clutched in his hand. "Identify yourselves!" he called out.

The one of the three Sangheili, shielding his eyes from the bright light, eventually replied, "Faithful Unit. We have been traveling for quite some time, seeking the Council Chambers. Am I to assume we found it?"

The defenders relaxed, and the three new arrivals came forward. Passing into the defensive perimeter they were awarded with salutes and tired embraces, words of encouragement and welcome. Half-heartedly but with full relief they returned them. Now that they were closer, Kasa could see their injuries in detail: burns and lacerations seemed to cover them all, but one of the Minors had a large metal spike protruding from his shoulder, and judging by the skin around the wound it was becoming infected. The Major had lost an eye and a plasma pistol hung loosely in his grip, but he seemed able to remain upright on his own.

In brief they recounted their tale, most of their Grunts remaining loyal to the Prophets, fighting in the streets, seeing terrible sights of savagery wrought by the Jiralhanae, and eventually their revelation in the use of the underground aqueducts to bypass the majority of the Jiralhanae's forces.

After the tale was finished, Balask approached the Major. "I have been tasked by the Judge himself to break the Brutes' attempt to overwhelm us. I understand your fatigue and desire to rest and regroup, but I would have you lead my strike force through the aqueducts, so we may properly surprise the Jiralhanae."

The Major, though obviously exhausted, inclined his head. "I will do as you say, Excellency, though I ask for even the briefest of respites. When is this attack to occur?"

"You may obtain food and new weapons, Major, but I expect you to be ready within the hour." Balask's eyes glinted dangerously. "I intend to strike before the moons are risen."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you to those who participated in the poll. On Sunday, I will be changing by pen name to Captain Raspberry. Please update your links and/or bookmarks then; I'm not sure how any RSS feeds or author alert/favoriting systems will be affected, so use your discretion.


	6. Age of Retribution

**Author's Note: **My first update as Captain Raspberry! All hail.

* * *

Chapter 6: Age of Retribution

Ragnorkus had watched the suns set from the comfort of a Sangheili balcony, situated on the top of one of the few towers that remained standing in the Lomak district. The Chieftain had allowed himself a brief respite from his slaughter, letting the triple stars' light shine on his golden armor. On his back, his Fuel Rod Gun hummed against his armor's power source, creating a calming resonance.

For the Jiralhanae, the day had been an undeniable victory.

Below him was his staging area, where infantry and vehicles from all nearby sectors had converged. From this location he would push against the Sangheili lines, crush their meager resistance underfoot and capture the Council Chambers. By exterminating this last bastion of Sangheili political leadership, he would stunt the war's continuance and trigger the downfall of the once-great reptilian race. For ages past the Brutes of the Covenant had dreamed of supplanting their Elite overseers, and now thanks to the support of the Hierarchs such a cleansing had begun.

His attention was diverted from the twilight by the rumble of engines below; another wheel of Choppers had arrived, and were directed by the Chieftain's personal guard to their appropriate storage areas. The battle would not take place for several hours; Ragnorkus hoped to strike just before dawn.

Elsewhere in the city, battle thundered on. Though by far the most significant, the Council Chambers were not the only pocket of resistance to the Jiralhanae invasion. Other Sangheili had hunkered down to defend some key areas, denying the attackers access to crucial resources such as power stations and water dispensary plants. In addition, the shoreline with its myriad docks, for both aquatic and aerial craft, remained steadfastly under Sangheili control.

It bothered the middle-aged Brute that their surprise assault was being so repelled, but it was not his concern. His mission was to seize control of the Sangheili seat of government and publically execute its leaders, and it was a job he was well suited for.

* * *

In the aqueducts, Major Toro 'Bodnolee led a strike force down the unlit passages, their hooves sloshing through the ankle-high liquid that filled the stone waterways. He was tired from his own ordeal, the gently throbbing socket of his eye the foremost reminder, but he felt renewed by a sense of looming vengeance. Beside him were Rabu 'Cklovee and Enma 'Gubotee, the last surviving members of his Faithful Unit, both wounded and exhausted but similarly empowered.

Behind them was a sizeable force, consisting of dozens of Sangheili and over a hundred Unggoy, outfitted for the mission at hand with all manner of explosive weapons. At the front of the column, moving with 'Bodnolee, were the two Operatives who had been placed in charge of this undertaking.

"It is hard to say what their strength is," the senior Operative was saying, "but imagery projected from passing ships has placed their numbers at just over a thousand, with more arriving from other parts of the city."

The junior Operative nodded. "With such an armored force, it will be easy for them to break the Council's defensive line."

"Which is why we must strike now and with force."

The Major nodded. "So we attack from below."

"Precisely." The senior Operative turned to look at 'Bodnolee. "Their vehicles are clustered together in specific areas. All the soldiers are commanded from a single position, located in an overlooking tower. My unit will infiltrate the tower, eliminate whatever leadership lies within, and throw the remaining forces into disarray. It is then that the rest of you will strike."

'Bodnolee eyed the Operatives thoughtfully. Both were armed with ceremonial energy swords, the deactivated hilts hanging at their hips, while the younger Sangheili had a beam rifle slung across his back and the older bore a human shotgun. Though once considered heretical, Toro found it easy to believe that this Operative did not care for the criticism of others.

The Major looked ahead once more. "How will we infiltrate this place?"

Withdrawing a Lumidex, the junior Operative called up a map and showed it to 'Bodnolee. "The aqueduct systems exit in only a few areas surrounding the target promenade, but they are key areas. One infiltration point lies here, in this building, which was shown to be heavily bombarded during the initial assault and is largely ignored by the Brutes. That will be where Operative 'Zakamee and I enter to assassinate the leadership.

"The rest of the force will be divided between the remaining two infiltration points here and here." He pointed to distinct areas on the map. "This first one will bring our warriors into a building currently being used as a dormitory for the Jiralhanae pilots. The attack force will be comprised mostly of Sangheili with only a few Unggoy in support roles.

"The other point emerges right in the middle of the promenade, amongst the vehicles. An attack force of Unggoy will be deployed there, with orders to exit after the first attack force goes into combat and begin placing explosives on the vehicles."

The young Sangheili turned off the Lumidex and replaced it on his belt. "The first attack force is largely diversionary, intended to draw the Brutes' attention into believing it is the real strike. While they are occupied, the Unggoy destroy the vehicles and begin their own assault with the support of us in the tower. The Jiralhanae will be trapped between two fronts which will then squeeze the life out of our enemies."

Soon, they reached the first infiltration point. The two Operatives, as well as a pair of like-armored Unggoy carrying deactivated plasma turrets, ascended through the metal grate, leaving 'Bodnolee in charge of the first attack force. He watched them go, then turned to the assembled crowd.

"We continue on to our attack points," he said. "May your ancestors guide your hands in battle this night."

* * *

Kasa 'Yonomee's assessment of their target turned out to be accurate, which beget significant relief and pride from Operative Balask 'Zakamee. Though given the mission by the Judge himself, the older Sangheili had allowed his junior officer to concoct the infiltration and plan the assault. Despite his age, Kasa was proving to be an able tactician.

As they ascended from the aqueducts, all four members of Blessed Unit engaged their active camouflage, the Unggoy hugging the turrets tighter so the field would wash over the inert weapons. It was imperative that the diminutive warriors remain unnoticed until the two Sangheili completed their mission.

The tower was a standard Sanghelios dormitory tower, five stories tall, reserved for honored guests of the Council, usually from the branch located on High Charity. As such, Balask was intimately familiar with its layout: at the center of the spire would be a gravity lift that would run the entire height of the structure. It was likely that the commanding Jiralhanae had forces on every level, but most probably he would have situated himself on the uppermost floor. Balask hummed his disapproval; the Jiralhanae were predictably brash. As much as he would have preferred to move straight to slaughtering the Chieftain, the Operative understood the importance of sweeping the tower of enemies and eliminating his primary target's support before ending his life.

Only then would his bloodlust be sated.

The Unggoy remained at the base of the gravity lift as planned while Kasa and Balask rode the inverted gravity wave to the second floor to begin their sanguine business.

* * *

Ragnorkus, pleased with his assembling army, reclined on the plush gelatinous bench near the balcony. He had just completed his final report for the night, sending it to the command ships in high orbit, speaking of his success in driving back the Sangheili and bringing together his armored assault plan. The Chieftain, when first told of his assignment, had balked at the idea of using standard infantry to make an attempt on the Council's defense line. It was true that the Jiralhanae had the greater strength and numbers, but the Sangheili were crafty dogs with a myriad of tricks and traps that would trip the unheeding infantry.

Instead, he would rely on vehicles, their heavy steel plating and large mounted weapons easily tearing through any resistance they met. It brought the Jiralhanae delight to think of the Sangheili vanquished because of his tactical prowess.

What brought him steadily less pleasant thoughts, however, was his lack of a drink. Several minutes ago he had sent his attendant to one of the lower levels to acquire him some brandy, on the grounds that the eve of such a momentous occasion warranted more than water and rations. The younger, sycophantic Jiralhanae had departed into the central gravity lift, and Ragnorkus had estimated the time to his return to be mere minutes.

It was several times that length now, and the Chieftain became angry. At first he had planned to give the attendant a solid thump for his tardiness, but this degree of disappointment beget something worse, possibly involving scars. Such a punishment would send a message that his victory was not to be lessened by a lack of alcohol.

Finally he stood, intent on chasing down the insolent cur, but as he did so, he felt his fur brush against something. There was nothing there, but he reacted on instinct, bringing his fist around in a wide arc. It connected with an invisible something that let out a grunt of pain, and the Jiralhanae realized what was happening: his tower had been infiltrated. His first reaction was to trigger the general alarm and alert all his warriors, but one thought stopped him: the image of him walking out in the morning, with the corpse of one Special Operations Sangheili in his arms to be attached to the front plate of his personal Chopper.

As Ragnorkus readied himself for combat against his unseen opponent, two prongs of plasma exploded through his chest, skewering his lungs and burning up the oxygen within. He gasped for breath, and the blade twisted, vaporizing his heart. Lifeless, the Brute Chieftain slumped to the ground.

Kasa 'Yonomee was first to fade into view, nursing his aching mandibles. "A superb strike, Excellency," he said.

Energy sword already visible, Balask 'Zakamee quickly followed suit. "Your mistake?"

"I drew too close before I was ready to deliver a killing blow, and allowed my opponent the chance to discover me."

Balask nodded. "Indeed. But our target is no more, so all is well that ends well."

"As you say, Excellency."

"Send the order to begin the attack, and get Opom and Nunot up here to set up those turrets. They will soon be needed."

* * *

In the Jiralhanae dormitory, it had taken all the discipline in 'Bodnolee's veins to keep himself from beginning his assignment early. The Sangheili had taken up positions throughout the building, prepared to barge in and kill all Brutes they could find, but for once the Major did not feel particularly bound to the honor code. He was in position in a bunk room, home to four slumbering Jiralhanae, and gripped twin plasma rifles tightly.

Images flashed through his mind, of the bodies of warriors in the streets, slain dishonorably, of the female with the dead hatchling clutched in her cold, final embrace. All he could see was red; it was a miracle he remained so contained.

When he heard the first crackle of a Battle Net transmission, he did not wait to hear its content. "Awaken and face your doom, beasts!" he screamed, and immediately pressed both triggers. Blue bolts of plasma lanced through the darkness, carving up stone and bed and flesh. The Brutes screamed as their fur was scorched, skin peeling away to reveal blackened bones. His bombardment did not cease, only continuing after each had gurgled their last. Once that was finished, he stalked out into a hallway full of similar noise, Sangheili rushing into rooms and cutting down their foes wherever they stood. Armed, unarmed, awake or asleep, this was not a matter of honor. None of the Sangheili had been immune to the Jiralhanae's treachery; all had lost beloved friends and family in the attack.

No, it was not a time for honor. It was a time for bloody vengeance.

One Brute, legs burnt black, dragged itself out of its room, bellowing in pain. With the toe of his boot 'Bodnolee fiercely kicked the creature onto its back, then brought his hoof down on its throat. As it struggled for breath, the Major unloaded ten percent of each rifle's battery into his victim's belly, watching it scream hoarsely in agony. He left it then, innards boiling in its own juices and still not yet dead.

Despite the heavy casualties, some Jiralhanae were able to fight back, though not effectively. 'Bodnolee watched as one Brute, having survived the initial attack, fired its weapon at a Minor, burying a foot-long spike in the Sangheili's thigh. However, driven by bloodlust, the Sangheili ripped out the projectile and pounced on its would-be killer, using the creature's own ammunition to brutally stab it to death.

Roars went up among the warriors present, blood-boiling cries of anguish and vindication. No words, just unintelligible, guttural screams echoed throughout the promenade, driving fear deep into the hearts of those yet unmolested.

As the slaughter within petered out, the Sangheili having satisfied their craving for primal revenge, they turned their attention to the outside. The Unggoy attack force was planting explosives, and as planned whatever enemy soldiers remained were so distracted by the situation inside that they paid no mind to the motor pool. Slowly a phalanx of Jackals approached, shields deployed, backed by the Jiralhanae who had been outside when the attack began. The Sangheili inside took positions in the window and opened fire, hoping to wear down the Kig-Yar advance some.

It turned out to be unnecessary, as moments later twin streams of blue light flashed down from the tower, cutting through the lines of Jackals with ease. Simultaneously, thin purple beams eliminated key Brute soldiers while neon-green projectiles exploded among their ranks, casting them into confusion. The withering fire from the tower was soon aided by massive detonations behind as the entirety of the unmanned armor was destroyed, azure fireballs roiling into the sky. The Unggoy, now free from their task of sabotage, turned their weapons on the few remaining enemies. In a matter of minutes, the battle was complete.

'Bodnolee strode through ruined bodies, out into the scorched promenade illuminated by still-burning hulks and the silvery light of the moons as they rose. The sky was still full of flashes, indicative of the respective armadas continuing to clash over the orbital fate of the planet. Much of the city—even Sanghelios in its entirety—was still contested, but after what had transpired here, Toro had no difficulty in believing that his people would emerge victorious.

He turned, intending to find to 'Cklovee and 'Gubotee, but a piercing pain enveloped his body and the ground pitched beneath him; in just a second he found himself on the ground, hands clutching at the massive spike that emerged from his neck. He felt his skin growing slick with blood. He heard shouts and gunfire, but that quickly faded into a dull, monotonous roar that filled his senses. Shapes were above him now, forms he recognized as 'Cklovee and 'Gubotee, soon joined by others unfamiliar.

From the tower, Balask and Kasa came running, followed swiftly by the Unggoy. Nunot was somehow able to outpace the Sangheili and reach the fallen Major first, demanding the others make room for him. In the face of his duty as a Healer, his meek demeanor had vanished.

As 'Zakamee came to a stop, the Unggoy looked up at him. "We must move him immediately, before his lung fills with blood."

Kasa keyed the Battle Net, attempting to raise a Phantom, as Nunot set about caring for the wounded warrior. 'Bodnolee's thrashing was slowing, and time would be of the essence. Just when Balask feared help would not arrive, the steady thrumming of a dropship was heard and a Phantom descended from the sky. Several of the nearby soldiers went on alert, aiming weapons, but when the hatch descended it was a Sangheili who stepped out.

With the help of 'Cklovee and 'Gubotee, the wounded Major was carried aboard. He was joined by Nunot, who quickly urged the pilot to take to the air and bring them back to the Council Chambers. The assembled warriors watched the Phantom return to their ultimate destination.

Balask glanced at Kasa. "What were our casualties?"

"Just him, Excellency," Kasa said wearily.

The Operative nodded. A worthy price; somber, yes, but worthy. "Then let us return."

* * *

Rtas felt his knees growing weak, but he continued to stand on the bridge of the _Purity of Spirit_, issuing orders and keeping the ship in combat. The battle had raged for hours and showed no signs of abating in the slightest; it seemed that however many enemy ships they destroyed, just as many would jump in moments later to join the fray. If there was one consolation, the same was true for the Sangheili: more and more ships returned to the homeworld to protect their people. The reactor was reaching critical activity levels as he and the crew demanded more from the weapons, shields, and engines than it had clearly been designed to handle. As the Prophet of Truth's former flagship, it had been designed with luxury and the _appearance_ of ferocity in mind, rather than the actual capabilities of a great warship.

The deck rumbled beneath his feet, nearly toppling him.

"Port side shields are failing, Ship Master," said the tactical officer.

Rtas frowned. They had been taking a beating to port, where lighter frigates were outmaneuvering the carrier's fire and whittling away at its shields with pulse lasers. Alone such attacks would barely be worth his notice, but the continuous stream of bombing runs was taking its toll.

"Have we any excess power to divert?"

"No, Excellency, there is nothing left to give. Our reactor threatens to melt down if we push much harder."

"Very well. Divert our attacking Seraphs to our port side, have them give the frigates something else to be concerned with." The acknowledgment rune flashed, and Rtas returned his attention to the greater battle. The weapons officer was firing almost constantly, barely allowing the lateral lines enough time to cool before dumping more plasma into them. However, the tactic was working beautifully, launching volley after volley of plasma torpedoes into space. With every shot, the Ship Master could see more enemy ships blossom into fire.

The _Purity of Spirit_ was several thousand miles away from the atmosphere of Sanghelios, having been assigned to front-guard duty as a heavier tonnage vessel. While it was a fittingly honorable post, it also meant Rtas had to be constantly alert, exhausting him mentally as well as physically.

"Ship Master," the tactical officer said, "new enemy formation is approaching, bearing three-five-fifteen."

"Size?"

"Three cruisers and one carrier with full picket, Excellency."

He keyed the helmsman's rune. "Bring us about, heading three-five-fifteen, be prepared for evasive maneuvers." Next he touched the symbol next to it. "Weapons, lock on to the head of the enemy formation, try to catch some of their picket in our answering fire." Back to tactical. "Assess power rerouting so that I may use the energy projector on that carrier."

A choruses of affirmations sounded, but one rune that he didn't press lit up. "Excellency, an incoming transmission from above Sanghelios. He claims it is urgent."

"It had better be," Rtas replied, "for he is interrupting my battle. Let it through."

The screen switched from the fore-cameras to the face of a familiar, scarred Sangheili. "Ship Master 'Vadumee, your presence is requested in the Council Assembly Chamber at the capital."

Rtas shook his head. "Impossible. I am engaged defending the homeworld from the attacks of traitors."

"The Judge himself has asked this of you. Do not deny him."

_Was not the position of Judge done away with? _"Were it the Gods Themselves that asked me I could not break away."

The Zealot scowled. "You are clearly unfamiliar with the protocols of the Navy. Leave your Ship Commander at your post and return at once."

"I have no Ship Commander to leave, as I am the only command-level officer present."

For a moment, the Sangheili on the other end seethed with a quiet fury, but he had a firm hold of his temper and was not likely to let it get the better of him. "Ship Master," he said at last, "you attempt to refuse an order from the Judge of the High Council, the leading body of the Sangheili people, and you speak of repulsing traitors. If you do not respect the decisions of the Council, you will be considered hostile and dealt with accordingly. Will you not return?"

Now it was Rtas's turn to fume. He had not come so far to be branded a traitor himself and burned from the sky.

The deck rumbled slightly, and all the holograms and lights dimmed, sputtered, and died. For two horrifying seconds, the Ship Master was left alone in the dark, unsure of what had just happened. Had his ship been hit? A torpedo puncturing his shields and dealing a death-blow to his vessel while he had been distracted? He cursed. He was too new at this; had he been on the ground, he never would have let himself get distracted by the bumbling of politicians.

Suddenly power returned, the holograms winking into existence. However, most of them were strobing in alarm. The tactical rune flashed with particular urgency. "Excellency, we have a situation."

"What is it?"

"The weapons officer fired the energy projector before I was able to properly reroute our plasma output, and the reactor has been pushed beyond critical. It will overload in mere minutes."

Minutes. Not enough time to evacuate the ship. How had everything gone so wrong so fast? He keyed the engineering section. "How is our reserve holding?"

There was a moment before the reply came, and it was full of a hissing sound. "Reserve reactor holds steady, Excellency, but our primary one is moments from breach!"

"Jettison it. Helm, direct the ship so our core is sent towards the enemy, and plot a course to Sanghelios using only auxiliary power. Communications, send our general alarm signal to nearby ships, tell them to cover our retreat."

He sighed, then added, "And send a response to Sanghelios that I will be before the Council as soon as time permits."

* * *

Anli 'Rutasee watched the dawn come over the broken city. He stood, helmet removed, at the top of one of the destroyed-then-recaptured spires that had once made up a distinguished district of politicians, top warriors, and honored visitors from the colonies. In peace he had never had the opportunity to see the inside of these buildings, being an Elite Minor in the Covenant Navy, nothing more than a dropship pilot.

As he gazed at the ruins below him, he was reminded of his home planet, a colony called Decided Heart. It was home to many important but politically disinclined military leaders, ruthless qualities reflected in the barren nature of the world, from its dark red soil to the many ranges of jagged mountains that criss-crossed its globe. And, being the hotbed of military leaders that it was, it had a long history of failed rebellions, including one particularly bloody one led by Ripa 'Moramee. Most Sangheili thought of it as little more than a blood-stained rock, a poor approximation of true society, and extended that perception to those who originated from it.

The pilot breathed in the air, tasting the ash carried on the winds from distant battles still raging. If only he had been born on a respectable planet, like this one, or Unifying Faith, or Joyous Exultation; then again, had he not been from Decided Heart, he doubted that he would have been possessed of such a strong desire to flee that he would have become a pilot.

Still, he felt compelled to lie that he had been born on Qikost.

But regardless of where he had hatched, where he had been raised, the sight of devastation was enough to stir the anger inside him, to make it boil.

The Battle Net called for his attention. "Anli 'Rutasee, you are to make deep-space rendezvous with the _Purity of Spirit_, and bring its Ship Master to the Council Chambers."

The pilot acknowledged the order and turned away from the panorama of destruction.

Revenge would come soon.

* * *

Rtas endured the Phantom ride in silence, mulling over his recent responsibilities. Though he had never been one to question the orders of his superiors, he found himself going down the list: the Arbiter, the Judge, even the Council. Why had the Arbiter believed him to be worthy of commanding a carrier? He had little to no naval training, and it was rare for one in the army to receive such a sideways advancement, let alone one in Special Operations. Perhaps the Arbiter had been right, that the only purpose he could serve as a Ship Master was to be a political ally.

Which brought him to the Judge and the Council.

He shook his head. There was no point denying their authority, but he had hoped they would face the current crisis with a bit more proactive thought. While he had expected to give a detailed report on the events that occurred on High Charity, he thought it would be later, after the home world had been secured. Giving it now was highly irregular to the flow of combat.

Suddenly wondering, he turned to the dropship's pilot beside him. "Pilot, how fares the battle on the surface?"

"It has improved, Excellency," the young Minor offered hesitantly. "Early this morning, before the suns had risen, an attack force led by two Operatives was able to surprise and annihilate the Brutes' main armored force in the area of the Council Chambers. Without their armor, they will not be able to break the defense cordon and we will be able to gradually push them back."

Rtas nodded and was quiet, but soon noticed the pilot's unease. "Is there something wrong, pilot?"

"No, Excellency, it is... I am simply unused to such a holy presence in my dropship."

For a moment the Ship Master was confused, thinking the young Sangheili meant him, but soon realized his error. He stole a glance back into the troop bay, which was empty save for one object. "You refer to the Oracle?"

The pilot nodded.

"Fear not," Rtas reassured him. "It will cause you no harm." The Oracle had been insistent on following him, though he would have much rather left it on the _Spirit_. However, its value for testimony was undeniable, and Rtas knew that he would be glad of its input by the day's end.

Not long after, following a smoother atmospheric entry than he had ever undergone, the Phantom alighted on the western veranda of the Council Assembly Chambers. Thanking the pilot for his service, he and the Oracle disembarked and crossed the makeshift staging area quickly. All around were warriors making preparations for a push outward, arming weapons and powering up vehicles, loyal Unggoy carrying supplies and fusion cells back and forth. All made way for the unlikely pair, though most stared at the small floating automaton, which seemed to stare right back.

Inside the building, he made his way quickly through the halls before entering the chambers proper. Glancing from left to right, he saw that there was no Attendant Speaker to announce his presence. Up ahead, the Council roared their discussions at each other.

As he approached the dais, a centrally seated Councilor raised his hand for silence, and the assembly quieted to hissing whispers. "You are the Ship Master of the _Purity of Spirit_?"

"Yes, Honored Judge," the Ultra replied, bowing, "I am Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum."

Silence fell over the Councilors. The Judge leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "You bring an Oracle with you, yet you forfeit your Military Appellation? You tread a dire line of heresy, Ship Master."

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Why?"

"It is an appellation of the Covenant, which at one point represented unity, honor, and glory. But where is that unity now, when we turn on each other and spill blood in the streets? Where is that honor, when planets are burned from space as millions below suffer? Where is that glory, when the morale of the troops is so low that suicide is a means of saving oneself from despair rather than to regain lost honor?

"And of the Oracle, I brought it so that you may hear its own account as to the truth of which I will speak."

"Why would we have reason to doubt your word, Ship Master?"

He paused. "Our beliefs are at stake more than any of you realize."

No one made a sound for a long time. Finally the Judge straightened in his chair. "You make a compelling point, Ship Master. Perhaps the Arbiter was wise to select you for this duty."

Rtas relaxed slightly. "It is kind of you to say, Excellency." He shifted his weight. "If I may be so bold, the news that there has been a Judge appointed comes as a surprise. To whom am I speaking?"

The Judge smiled, an expression that seemed ill-suited for such grave features. "The Councilor's crest does obscure identities, does it not? I am not surprised at your inability to recognize me, though I called your Lineage friend for many years. Before this appointment, I was known as High Councilor 'Orgalmae."

The muscles in the Ship Master's neck stiffened in surprise. This was Yarna's father, and a friend of Rtas's own father when he still lived. It suddenly occurred to him that given the chaotic nature of the past several days and the complete communications breakdown between High Charity and Sanghelios, the Judge likely did not know the fate of Field Commander 'Orgalmee.

"Ship Master," the Judge said, breaking Rtas's daze, "you seem pale."

"Apologies, Excellency," Rtas said, feeling a little out of breath, "but the solemn duty that has fallen to me proves to be a heavy burden to bear."

'Orgalmae cocked his head. "You speak of recanting what transpired on High Charity."

"In a way, yes." The Ship Master struggled not to fidget nervously.

One of the other Councilors growled. "The Arbiter should have come to fulfill this duty. He should be the one to lead our people in this dark time!"

"With respect," Rtas said, "the Arbiter is meant to lead from the front, and despite all our hardships here on Sanghelios and elsewhere, it is the human homeworld that lies at the center of this conflict." He inclined his head respectfully. "And it is the duty of the Council, not of the Arbiter, to see our people through difficulty."

The chambers hummed as the Councilors discussed his words. From his place of honor, Judge 'Orgalmae nodded. "You prove as wise as your father, Ship Master. His spirit clearly guides you in these troubled days."

Rtas dipped his head again. "Your words flatter me, Excellency, but my direction is my own."

"Tell us what has happened."

Internally, the mangled Sangheili grimaced. This was the solemn duty that had unexpectedly befallen him, and it was not one that he wished to fulfill. "I am afraid this conflagration began with a most unfortunate event, Honored Judge."

'Orgalmae leaned forward. "And what is that?"

"The death of your son."

* * *

When Ship Master 'Vadum concluded his tale, the chamber was silent. The Councilors had thought they faced the worst crisis in Sangheili history with the betrayal of the Brutes, but now they had to confront the splintering of the Covenant, the rising threat of the Flood, and the realization that they had been engaged in bloody, pointless genocide for the last ten Sangheilian years.

The Oracle's testimony had proven to be invaluable, though shocking to the assembly.

Rtas looked from face to face, sympathizing with the devastated look on each one. It had been a harsh blow when the military commanders had learned of such things, but they were bound by their duty to fight the enemy and protect their people. For these politicians, who sanctioned the slaughter of billions of innocents, he suspected that many would be found dead in their homes over the course of the next month.

In some situations, there was only one way to restore honor.

"Where is the Arbiter now?" the Judge asked.

Rtas admired 'Orgalmae's reserve. He had been visibly struck by the news that his only child was dead, killed by the Jiralhanae Alpha Chieftain, but the fact that vengeance had been swift and terrible against Tartarus seemed to calm his rage. There was sorrow visible in his body language, the way his mandibles and hands twitched, but he was keeping it under control. He had a job to do.

"He went to the human homeworld in order to negotiate a cease-fire with their leadership," the Ship Master replied, "though I am in doubt of the success of his mission. We lost contact with the _Drowned in Honor_ not long after they emerged from Slipspace at their destination.

'Orgalmae fell silent for a while, and 'Vadum wondered what he was thinking. Slowly, the Judge's head rose, and he pressed a button on his throne. "Prepare for a broadcast across the Battle Net," he said into the concealed mic. "I wish to address all Sangheili on all worlds."

As he stood from his seat, small blue lights on the platform around him flickered into existence, holographic recorders readying themselves for the transmission. The Judge was quiet for a few moments, composing himself before he gave his speech.

"To all Sangheili," he began, "I am Supreme Judge Rakola 'Orgalmae, of the High Council of Masters on Sanghelios."

He paused, then continued: "We have been dealt a terrible blow, to our race, to our beliefs, to our homes. Many of you doubtless face challenges now that you never imaged you would, situations that beget the loss of blood and honor. It is my solemn obligation to tell you now that this war, this Great Schism, is not the result of a miscommunication or an act of treason on the part of the Jiralhanae, not the result of a blood feud that has long since been waiting to boil over. This was a willful and premeditated command from the Hierarchs to excommunicate us from the Holy Covenant which we have held so high.

"There is no reason for this treachery against us but that we have become too intelligent, too mindful of the universe around us. The Prophets feared that we would soon see through the lies that they crafted to bound our forefathers to them, the selfsame lies with which they have deluded us and would drag us down to ruin. For the truth has been revealed to us by none other than an Oracle: the Sacred Rings are no engines of divinity, but weapons of terrible power that, if activated, would have needlessly destroyed our entire civilization."

Out of the corner of his eye, Rtas saw the Oracle bob forward, as if ready to explain, but he held up a staying hand. This was not a time for Oracles, but for Sangheili.

"With this information come startling revelations which we will have to cope with in the weeks and months to come, but for now I call for unity among Sangheili. Before the arrival of the Prophets... no, of the _San 'Shyuum_, we were a strong, noble, and capable species. Our sector of the galaxy was completely under our dominance. Our will was irrefutable! Our wisdom was undeniable! Our force was inescapable! There was no crisis, no difficulty, that we could not overcome!

"The Covenant has spoken that it has no further need of us, but I say now that we never had a need for it. In this light, I make the following decree: the Sangheili separate ourselves from the Covenant in its entirety, and declare war on those who would so brazenly attack us! Let the San 'Shyuum and the Jiralhanae quail at our might, and let any of those from the Broken Covenant who wish to stand beside them in doom do so. With the power so given to me by our people, I hereby declare war!"

Having finished, the recorders around the base of the platform switched off and the Judge sat down. The chambers were silent, but Rtas sensed the difference. There was a charge in the air, purpose once again given to a warrior race that had for so long fought without honor.

But honor was with them again.

"We must rally our defenses and push the Jiralhanae out of our space," 'Orgalmae began, "and then take from their territory whatever we can reasonably hold. Capture ships, fleets, planets. The following orders must be issued to the military: give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Every Jiralhanae that breathes is an enemy of our sovereignty."

He turned off to the side, where an attendant waited in shadow. "Send word to the jails: the San 'Shyuum we hold prisoner are to be tortured and executed, and their bodies are to be displayed on the front lines as an omen of what is to come."

As the attendant left, Rtas felt the need to speak. "Excellency, what of the humans?"

'Orgalmae considered for a moment. "We owe them a debt of blood, one that we cannot possibly repay," he said. "But I agree with the Arbiter that reparations must be made immediately. We must send word to any human forces that will listen that we will agree to any cease fire they draft, and after things have stabilized we will endeavor to create a treaty."

"It will be difficult," interjected a Councilors, "to make such plans now."

Another nodded. "There is much blood spilled between our races, and this schism comes suddenly. There will be Sangheili who refuse to acknowledge our new position beyond the Covenant. In a very short period of time, we may be dealing with uprisings within our own people."

"To say nothing of the reactions we will receive from the humans."

"Whatever retributions they demand from us will not even begin to repay the debt we owe..."

"We must consolidate our fronts."

"What of trade and barter? We are dependent on the Kig-Yar for many imports, as well as others..."

"Enough!" the Judge bellowed. "These are all issues which will be dealt with in due time. At the moment we have more pressing matters concerning our own defense. I will require a meeting with all current Fleet Masters and Imperial Admirals, excluding the armada left by the Arbiter to keep Halo under quarantine."

He looked down at Rtas, who had up to this point remained on the speaking dais listening. "Ship Master, though it is an insult to your current rank, given your command experience I am placing you in charge of all Special Operations units in the capital. It is your personal imperative to weaken key Jiralhanae hold points by any force necessary. I will ensure you have the full cooperation of the regular Infantry."

'Vadum bowed. "It is my honor, Excellency."

"Dismissed."

* * *

Over the next few days, it quickly became apparent to the Covenant loyalists that the defenses they had crashed against on countless fronts had been ramshackle and reactionary at best, cobbled together by Sangheili who had little time to make do and almost no intelligence on what the situation was. What they were now encountering was a true, coordinated defense, the very best of Sangheili military tactics. One by one disputed worlds were reclaimed by the excommunicated race, and one by one every life lost in the surprise attack was repaid in kind.

On Sanghelios, the tide turned rapidly. Less than thirty hours following Judge 'Orgalmae's historic decree, the Jiralhanae forces were on the retreat from all major urban centers, driven into the fields and tropical forests where they were hunted and exterminated with ruthless precision. In short time, a market for the trade of Jiralhanae pelts helped boost the damaged economy.

Not all reports were inspiring. The complete loss of worlds such as Providence and Joyous Exultation was a harsh blow, both to morale and production, as well as the realization regarding how many warriors and ships had been caught flat-footed and destroyed. Yet through determination, the Sangheili rallied, and within the span of a few months were able to launch an effective counterattack into Jiralhanae space.

But in the days that soon followed the Battle of Sanghelios, it was clear that one battlefield would be the key to ending the entire war:

Earth.


	7. Unlikely Turns

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait for such a short chapter, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of things and I don't want to spend any more time agonizing over this one. Next one will push the plot way forward.**

Chapter 7: Unlikely Turns

Ahead of the convoy, dominating the horizon, was the mountain.

"That's it," said Lieutenant Mosley. "The Crow's Nest."

For the last few days, the humans had been talking about it like it was their last salvation, but Maka 'Fulsam wasn't so sure. The convoy had at first been followed with a bloody fervor, the Jiralhanae doing everything to keep up, but after the first day the attack had simply petered out. Slowly but surely, N'tho 'Sraom detected more and more Battle Net chatter as the Brutes broke off pursuit, leaving only a token force. Since then, the fleeing humans had been harried once or twice by Banshee patrols and the occasional infantry squadron, but the rest of the journey had been easy.

It didn't sit well with the Sangheili.

"This is a cunning strategy," said the Arbiter quietly, as the Sangheili walked in the middle of the formation. "If I were still a commander, it is not far removed from what I would do. Lull one's opponents into a feeling of safety, and they will show you where they hide."

Major 'Tahamee clicked his mandibles, the sound muted by his full-face helmet. "I agree that it is cunning, and therefore beyond the Brutes. Likely they have acquired a much more tempting target."

"We cannot risk detection. We must ask the humans to divert."

"Go on then, Arbiter, and ask. I can guarantee you that their answer will be condemnation."

They fell silent in thought. Since beginning the journey, it had been obvious that the humans didn't trust their former enemies. Even the ones they had accompanied through the jungle, who had fought and bled beside them on the sacred ring, only gave what little respect they offered grudgingly. Most had murder in their eyes: if anything went wrong, Maka knew his kind would be first against the wall.

He had never taken a human life, but it seemed pointless to tell these soldiers. They wouldn't believe him, and why should they? Had he been in the proper situation, before the Great Schism, Maka would have certainly killed. It was his duty.

Overcome by the stress and unfamiliarity of this situation, his thoughts turned to the family he never knew. His brothers, war heroes, and his sister... perhaps, now, she had been validated in her death as a martyr, an undeserving victim of the Prophets' treachery.

Maka had heard stories of how different his brothers were, like day and night: Orna had burned brightly with passionate ambition, willing to do what was necessary to conquer, no matter the price. Likely, he had faced his first human foe with determination and strength.

But Oriné was said to be a much cooler sort, with the soul of a poet and a calculating mind. He was more philosopher than warrior. Maka could not imagine Oriné killing his first human with any mental ease.

These things hardly mattered now, he thought glumly, staring at the barren rock looming before him. Both were dead, or at least would never return.

The 'Fulsam Lineage ended with him.

The convoy pulled into the mountain's shadow, and more details became visible to Sangheili eyes. Here and there, they saw small hangars or defensive positions, and even concealed automated turrets that tracked their approach. At the front of the vehicle train, a man stood in the back of a Warthog, using a small flashlight to signal somebody up ahead. A flicker responded, and soon a large metal door slowly swung aside to allow them entry.

Immediately inside was a rock tunnel, carved hastily with explosives, and a small security station. A detail of Marines marched out to meet them.

The lead human saluted the lieutenant. "You must be Lieutenant Mosley."

"That's right, sergeant. Damn glad we made it."

"You'll make the Lord Admiral happy, too. We've been under strength since—"

"_Holy shit!_"

One of the Marines had seen the Sangheili, and immediately the entire detail had leveled their weapons. Safeties clicked off, and Maka feared their journey had come to a premature close.

The female commander stepped forward. "Hold you fire!"

"Ma'am?" The sergeant was confused.

"I'm Commander Keyes, and these Elites are under my protection."

Glancing from one face to another, the sergeant seemed conflicted. He looked up at the lieutenant for confirmation. Mosley only shrugged. "She's come a long way. Hood will want to know she's alive, and the split-lips want their say also."

"I, uh..." Slowly the sergeant lowered his weapon, as did the rest of the detail. "I have to go call this in."

* * *

To Oriné 'Fulsamee, the continent Africa was not unlike some of the more arid places on Sanghelios. He had visited the Yermo region once in his youth, and it had been as dry, though with less vegetation. Overall he had been unimpressed, hailing as he did from more tropical climes, but now he appreciated the atmosphere, even if he did not prefer it. The dry air chafed his skin horribly, though it could equally have been the fault of his new armor.

He had been assigned to command from the bridge of the carrier _Inclement Justice_, but he disliked staying aboard the ship with the Jiralhanae. Instead, he had ordered an outpost be constructed, and it was from there that he led his troops. This sat well with the command-level Brutes, who were just as happy to be rid of the Sangheili as he was of them.

The outpost had been assembled just outside the human city of Voi, which had become a stronghold of the Covenant recently. During his descent, Oriné had learned why: beneath its surface, the African soil had hidden something as precious as it was mysterious. When his Phantom had broken through the cloud layer, he had seen the familiar silver sheen and thought that perhaps he was hallucinating. An entire fleet of ships circled the construct, using their plasma beams to slowly burn away the ground concealing it.

From above, he saw exactly what it was: a massive Forerunner vault.

"This is... unbelievable," he had said.

The Jiralhanae pilot nodded. "To think that it was so long covered on this world is a cosmic irony. We are lucky the humans never sullied it with their presence."

Rurut, who could barely see over the pilot's console, grunted. "What is it?"

Oriné chuffed. "It must be the same construct that we entered below New Mombasa, a vault of Forerunner treasures." He bowed his head in prayer. "I am not worthy of this sight."

"You are wrong, Sangheili," said the Brute. "This is no mere vault. This is the Ark."

Now, from the exposed deck of his outpost, Oriné watched the ships as they circled and excavated the ruin. It was to be the Prophet of Truth's landing site when he arrived, which was currently estimated to be days away.

A pleasant breeze wafted past, and briefly Oriné could forget the war.

Footfalls behind him spoiled the illusion, and his ears picked out two distinct patterns: one light clatter, another heavy thumping. He turned to face Rurut and the War Chieftain Perojjus. The Jiralhanae was outfitted in gold-bronze power armor, not unlike Oriné's new harness, with a Fuel Rod Gun slung across his back. His stance was very confident, but he had removed his headpiece and cradled it under one arm, a grudging sign of acknowledgment for the Sangheili's higher rank.

"My scouts have returned," Perojjus rumbled. "They speak of a human base concealed in a mountain roughly twenty-four kilometers from here." He bowed his head slightly. "I can have my shock troops inside their compound in less than four hours."

Oriné clicked his mandibles. "No," he said. "We wait."

Perojjus's head shot up, lips curled back into a snarl. "What?"

"Do not let the humans know that we are aware of their location. With the arrival of that column, they will be mindful of pursuit. Instead, we shall hold ourselves back until such a time as they are vulnerable."

The Jiralhanae looked ready to protest, but Oriné gave him a look that brooked no argument. Submitting, the Chieftain stalked away. After he was gone, the Sangheili turned to Rurut. "Do you support my decision?"

"I do, Excellency," the Unggoy replied. "But I've come across some information that may concern you."

Oriné cocked his head, waiting.

"The convoy that just arrived at the human base was accompanied by four Sangheili, one of them the Arbiter."

It took a moment for the news to sink in, and when it did, he felt his mandibles slacken.

"How did you come across this information?"

"A Grunt in one of the scouting parties caught sight of them."

Oriné growled his displeasure, remembering his time in captivity. "Perhaps we should launch an attack soon, to rescue them."

Rurut shook his head. "Even if we ignore what the Prophet of Truth has said about the Sangheili, the scout said that they were not prisoners. The Arbiter walked among the humans unbound and with a weapon at his side."

"My people... have _allied themselves_ with the humans?"

The small creature nodded. "So it would seem."

There was a sudden pain in Oriné's chest. "By the Gods," he swore, "the Sangheili really have cast themselves out of the Covenant." He looked at the Unggoy. "Why was I not told of this before?"

"I could not say, Excellency."

The Sangheili commander began to walk back into the outpost. He suddenly found it very difficult to make his legs move. "I must meditate on this," he muttered. "I am not to be disturbed."

Rurut bowed. "Yes, Excellency."

* * *

Their weapons had been confiscated at the security station. Maka, N'tho, and the Arbiter had relinquished theirs easily, but Major 'Tahamee had fought and argued to the point where they might have shot him. Instead, the Arbiter had given him a direct order, hoping to move their business along speedily. The Sangheili were not, however, forced to be put in chains: the commander had stepped in at that point and pulled rank.

Slowly the Arbiter was coming to truly respect her and everything she had done for them so far.

They were led through the base, twisting passages made of concrete and dirt, staircases and elevators powered by primitive combustion methods—but the Sangheili were grateful that there were few ladders. While it was possible for them to climb, they looked ridiculous doing so.

As they went, they passed many human soldiers, and saw their condition: most were wounded, some grievously, but they still manned their posts. Again, the Arbiter felt unexpected feelings of admiration towards the humans, how they faced the overwhelming superiority of the Covenant and still fought, rather than despair. He had studied the Covenant's history at Institution, and had seen that, in their final moments, most other races that had been exterminated had continued to flee, or begged for their lives, or simply lay down and waited for the end.

But such admiration didn't go both ways. In each human's eyes there was something dark, full of hate. When they thought they couldn't hear, each one spat a curse on the Sangheili. Some even unsafed their weapons as they passed, ready to take advantage of any excuse that would let them kill.

For the first time, the Arbiter wondered if his idea for a cease-fire was doomed to fail.

At length, they were led into what he could only assume was the command center. Monitors lined the far wall, as did workstations pushed into rows where humans, wearing similar uniforms as the female commander, worked furiously. Some rushed back and forth with datapads and pieces of paper, but all activity seemed to slow to a halt as soon as the procession of Sangheili entered the room. The Arbiter watched as several went for their sidearms, but Lieutenant Mosley held up his hand.

"Hold your fire, people," he said. He led them down a couple of small flights of stairs and into an open space in front of the wall of screens.

"Ensign," he said, turning towards one of the humans at a station, "connect us through to Lord Hood, priority transmission."

After a moment's hesitation, the ensign turned to his station. "UNSC _Forward Unto Dawn_, this is Charlie-November, I repeat, UNSC _Forward Unto Dawn_, Charlie-November actual. Transmission for See-Oh, encryption alpha on red key. Prepare for go." The human nodded at the lieutenant.

Mosley gave the female commander a knowing look, and then stepped away from the group. The Arbiter watched as she straightened her uniform and squared her shoulders.

The largest screen changed to the image of an aging human male, clad in white. His eyes, grey in color, twitched back and forth, absorbing the entire scene before him. From the looks of him, though the Arbiter was not perfectly familiar with human physiology, he had been awake for days on end.

Finally, the male's eyes settled on the female. "Commander," he said, "I wasn't expecting to see you again. I'm happy to see that you're safe."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, straightening and saluting. "Glad to see you're safe, too."

He doggedly returned the salute, and then turned his scrutiny on the Sangheili. "I see you brought some friends. Why aren't your prisoners restrained?"

"They're not prisoners, sir. They're emissaries."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You'll have to explain that one to me, commander."

"When we followed the Prophet of Regret's carrier, it led us to another Halo," she began, spreading her stance apart into something more relaxed. She concisely explained her actions, up to and including her capture at the Arbiter's hand. Then she discussed what she had seen and heard while jailed in High Charity, the Jiralhanae turning on the Sangheili, and the Prophets casting them out. She briefly mentioned deactivating the Halo ring, and then recounted the Sangheili's efforts to rally a quarantine fleet and negotiate a cease-fire.

When she was done, Lord Hood eyed her for a full ten seconds of silence.

Then he looked up at the Sangheili. "Which one of you speaks for your people?"

Now it was the Arbiter's turn to step forward. "I do."

"You understand that we're hardly in a position to just accept you as allies right off the bat? Until a few days ago, it was the Elites we were fighting against, and the Elites who were killing unarmed civilians, and the Elites who were glassing our planets."

The Arbiter bowed his head. "I understand that to accept our offer of aid would be a severe blow to your pride."

"Perhaps. But I'm afraid that right now we can ill-afford to waste this opportunity. Our resources are stretched to the breaking point, just trying to maintain what few supply lines we have. We've been reduced to guerilla warfare on our own home planet. Whatever aid you can give us, we need it."

"I understand."

"If something goes wrong, though, we will gun you down."

"Very well." The Arbiter nictitated. "Do you wish to name any terms?"

The human admiral shook his head. "You'll have to wait until I can get a representative of ONI in on this. They'll be the ones to dictate the terms of a cease-fire, or any other agreement."

The Arbiter was about to ask who ONI was, when the female commander stepped forward. "Sir, what about the admiralty?"

Hood sighed. "We lost HIGHCOM days ago, when the Covenant glassed Australia. Almost nobody got out. Right now, I'm the ranking planetary CO." He looked back to the Arbiter. "According to protocol, I'll be the one to oversee any negotiations, but I'll need our intelligence service's input before we decide on anything."

As the Arbiter was about to accept, an ensign approached Commander Keyes and whispered something in her ear. Her eyes went wide. "I'm sorry, sir, but it looks like one of our platoons got caught out in the jungle and are under heavy fire. I have to deal with this."

"Go on, commander," Hood said. "I have to get in touch with ONI."

The Arbiter stepped forward. "Let us help."

Keyes and Hood stared at him. "What?"

"We shall lend our aid," he said, turning to the admiral. "What better way to prove our devotion to an alliance than laying down our lives for yours? Let us accompany your reinforcements, and we shall make fast work of the Brutes."

Hood looked to the female commander. "It's your call."

"Fine," she said. "Lieutenant Mosley, get in touch with the armory, get their weapons back. Then take them to the Pelican bay and get them on a bird."

The lieutenant nodded. "Yes, ma'am. This way." He set off at a jog, but the Arbiter lingered.

"Wait a moment," he said, looking at the commander. "Should we tell your admiral about the Ark?"

Hood looked confused. "The Ark?"

Keyes turned to him. "When we stopped Halo from firing, Guilty Spark told us about some sort of fail-safe system. All of the rings are on stand-by mode right now, waiting for a remote command to fire. That command has to come from a particular facility, called the Ark, which the Prophet of Truth is looking for."

"And where is this Ark?"

She pointed at the ground.

"Here."

* * *

Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds barely got through the doorway before the Wraith mortar smashed into the ground. "Close the door!" Kinsey slapped the release, a heavy metal shutter dropping between the Marines in the abandoned water treatment center and the hordes of Covenant outside.

"That's it?" The sergeant slapped the metal, which shook uncertainly. "That won't hold five minutes!"

"It's all we got, Gunny."

He sighed explosively. His squad had been forced to fall back from their intended objective of capturing a secondary landing site; the Covenant had been quick to snap it up between the time that the scouts had reported its location and the Marine squadrons had gotten there. Things had been so confused that several people from other units had gotten mixed in with his, and he was _still_ the ranking pounder.

"I hope everyone's ready for some defensive action."

Kinsey nodded. "Holiday's up top with the rockets, waiting for the word."

"Tell him to hold on a little longer." Kinsey nodded and raced up the stucco steps, while the sergeant listened intently through the door. There was high-pitched muttering on the other side and a sound like a swarm of bees.

_Overcharge_, he thought. He took a few steps back and leveled his MA5C at the shutter, waiting until the humming was at its loudest before he opened fire. The metal rounds punched through the thin sheet metal and shredded the Grunts and Jackals on the other side. A few plasma shots melted holes in the door, but they were just the last attempts by dying soldiers to accomplish their goal.

The magazine clicked empty. Dust spilled in through the tattered steel, visible in the shafts of light. Knowing what was coming, Reynolds sidestepped; a moment later foot-long spikes made their own passage through the portal.

"Gunny, we got a problem!"

He clicked on his mic. "What's the matter?"

"Two high-speed contacts coming in over the tree tops. Could be enemy reinforcements."

Inching forward, the sergeant peeked out through the holes. He heard a loud whining, and several of the Covenant began looking up into the sky. Suddenly two shapes flashed by overhead: olive green, long, and angular. "Hold you fire, Marines!" he cried. "Help is on the way!"

One of the Pelicans banked around, strafing the ground with its tail gun before settling in the jungle a few hundred meters away. The Wraith, enticed by this new target, turned away from the building to start bombarding the landing zone. "Holiday! Shoot that fucker _now!_"

A rocket streaked from above and slammed into the exposed rear of the Wraith, the high-explosive charge destroying the fusion core. The mortar tank went up in a gout of blue fire, followed by several secondaries; the gunner, burning with surreal azure flames, struggled out from his seat, staggered a few steps, and dropped to the ground.

The second rocket from the tube was aimed at the infantry, successfully taking out two Brutes and their clutch of Grunts. All other Covenant scattered to find cover at the edge of the clearing.

Slowly the Pelican came to hover over the ground, scanning the trees with its chin-mounted gun while the Marines on board disembarked. Reynolds tried to get the shutter to rise, but there was so little of it left that it couldn't stay on its wall-mounted tracks. After a minute of trying, he settled for kicking it down and stepping over the remains.

A dark man sauntered up to him, burning cigar in his mouth. "Are you Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds?"

"That's me," he said, offering his hand.

"Sergeant Major Johnson," came the reply, as well as a firm handshake. He took the cigar out of his mouth and used it to point at the treatment center. "Your boys holed up in there?"

"What's left of 'em, yeah."

The Sergeant Major nodded.

Reynolds looked at the jungle. "Are we going in after them?"

"Nope. We're just gonna sit tight and let our new friends pull their own weight."

Before he could ask for clarification, he heard it: Carbine shots. Instinctively he dove to the ground, but Johnson remained standing, seemingly nonplussed. The edge of the clearing suddenly lit up, blue and green and yellow flares zipping this way and that. Occasionally a green contrail went wild and tore through the canopy, reaching into the sky only to disappear against the backdrop of blue. One—two—three plasma grenades went off.

The radio crackled. It was Holiday: "This is pretty intense."

"Yeah," replied Kinsey. "I don't hear any of our guys doing any shooting. They using silenced weapons?"

"Think maybe they're ODST?"

"After the hit they took in New Mombasa? I don't think so. Their numbers are more depleted than ours, and that's saying something."

Reynolds keyed his mic. "Cut the chatter and stay quiet."

A Brute exploded out of the bush, armor nearly destroyed and bleeding badly. He had a weapon, one of the unfamiliar metal-and-blades types, and aimed it wildly at the forest behind him. Then it was over: an energy sword appeared from nowhere and skewered the beast through the chest. It struggled, twitched, and bloody foam appeared at the mouth. Slowly it was lowered to the ground, and the blade removed.

"Whoa!" Reynolds's reaction was delayed, and he brought up his rifle, but the Sergeant Major held up his hands.

"Hold you fire, Gunny." Slowly, Johnson walked forward, fist held high above his head. "You boys finished yet?" For a moment, Reynolds was confused, until he realized that the Sergeant Major was addressing the cloaked Elite.

The Arbiter decloaked. "Some of the Kig-Yar fled deeper into the jungle," intoned the alien. "I sent 'Sraom and 'Fulsam on their trail; they will not be long in killing them."

"Let's hope not," said Johnson. "We got hot food and warm beds waiting for us back at the Nest." The Elite walked toward the Marines, accompanied by the sergeant. Reynolds was unsure what to do, but obeyed Johnson's order. Together the odd pair went into the water treatment plant.

"So... wait," Holiday said. "They're on our side now?"


	8. Arrival

Chapter 8: Arrival

The command center of the Crow's Nest had been converted from guerilla headquarters into a rough dignitary's reception room. All non-essential personnel had been cleared out, leaving only two humans that Maka 'Fulsam recognized—Commander Keyes and Lieutenant Mosley—as well as a new female, Lieutenant Calhoun, from the humans' spy service. She looked no different from any other human, but Maka decided that was what made her a valuable asset. The humans' ONI was not unlike the Sangheili Ascetics, with the obvious difference that ONI was _real_. All Maka knew of the Ascetics was what he heard in whispered legends during seminary on Sanghelios. They were an old, died-out sect dedicated to the preservation of Sangheili culture.

_And how bastardized were we by the Covenant?_ Maka made no outward sign of his scorn.

The large central monitor had two humans on it that Maka did not know. One was a tall female with her long light hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. The other was a hunched figure in a wheelchair who seemed to suffer from a serious malady: every so often, he would shake violently and his words would become incoherent. Whenever this happened, the light-haired female would take over speaking.

As it was, the four Sangheili stood before the monitor and their three humans sat further back, confined to chairs. The ONI personnel seemed determined to speak directly to the Sangheili.

"For reference, this meeting is not to discuss the creation of an actual treaty, but rather to assess the possibility of a cease-fire at this time," said the female—a captain, it seemed. The male was suffering from another fit. "You understand that, given our current situation, it is unfeasible to promise anything more robust than that?"

"Understood, Captain," said the Arbiter. "I am authorized to speak and make decisions for my people. I hope we can come to an agreement."

"Y-You are the one c-c-called the Arbiter, yes?" the man in the wheelchair said. He spoke with a slight accent. "Our intuh... intelligence says that you are a religious leader among the Sangheili, without equal."

The statement surprised Maka. Not only had the human used the proper term for his people—and pronounced it correctly—but he knew about the Arbiter's role, when so many did not. Glancing among his fellow warriors, he saw similar shock echoed on their faces, even 'Tahamee's exposed head.

"That is correct," said the Arbiter.

The male nodded and leaned back, apparently content. The Captain took charge again: "We have already drafted a list of terms you will be expected to follow if we choose to pursue this cease-fire. If at any time you violate these terms, the cease-fire will be considered null and void, and you will be held as prisoners of war for the duration of this conflict. These terms may be reassessed at any time and without forewarning beyond the necessary communication to relay to you—the Arbiter, or any chosen leader of the Sangheili—the change in terms."

'Tahamee bristled, but the Arbiter remained calm. "Very well, Captain. Go on."

"One: you are to assist the United Nations Space Command in any and every way concerning the acquisition of enemy intelligence. This includes but is not limited to troop movements, troop strength, stronghold coordinates, planetary coordinates, naval production, psychological warfare strategies, weapons research and development, naval research and development, counter-intelligence methods, and all methods of obtaining intelligence on us. The information you provide to us will be corroborated with a second source. Any deliberately misleading or false information found will be considered a violation of these terms, and will result in the subsequent termination of the cease-fire and your arrest as prisoners of war.

"Two—"

"Hold," said 'Sraom. "What second source do you have for corroboration?"

"That's classified information, which you are not privy to at this time."

'Tahamee stepped forward. "You demand all our secrets and return none of your own? Arbiter, this is a trap! If they have an agent within the Covenant, we should be told!"

"As C-Captain D—... Dare has said," the crippled male cut in, "the duh-details of Project Superintendent are at this time c-classifuh-fied. If we decide it is necessary for you to be informed of its purpose, we will." He made a gesture to Captain Dare. "Puh-please continue."

From there, the captain went on to outline several more terms for the cease-fire. As time marched on and she continued to speak, Maka felt his knees getting tired and his head started to hurt. Politics was so far beyond him; deep down, he hoped to never be promoted to a point where, after he finished his service, he would be forced to accept a position among the Councilors. He was tempted to ask to be excused—this went far above his station. However, he could see that N'tho was paying attention and even seemed genuinely interested. That made him feel slightly ashamed at his thoughts of retreating, and instead held his ground against the onslaught of words.

Finally, she seemed ready to bring the proceedings to a close. "Twenty-one: your government will provide us a list of Sangheili leaders in charge of the war effort, from February 2525 onward. Following the official cessation of hostilities against the Covenant threat, your government will turn over any and all Zealot-ranked leaders and above on that list for trials by Admiralty tribunal, on charges of war crimes and willful genocide."

"Outrageous!" 'Tahamee shouted. "You make all these demands, forgetful of the fact that we are the most powerful at this hearing! Our ships have been those that destroyed your worlds, not the other way around. Any agreement we make with you is ultimately by our will, and it is that will to which _you_ must acquiesce!"

The Arbiter turned to 'Tahamee, eyes fierce. "Major, you will stand down."

The male in the wheelchair raised his hand. It was quaking violently, barely held in place. "C-C-Cuh-Calm yourself, w-w—... warrior. It is-s-s-s n... n—" He started twitching spasmodically, another fit taking over.

'Tahamee sneered. "You see? They do not send warriors to meet us, but breeders and invalids! They do not take this cease-fire with anything resembling the solemn nature they should. It is a waste of time..."

"Major 'Tahamee!" The Arbiter barked, filling the room with its volume. From the corner of his eye, Maka saw Captain Dare twitch at the sound. "You will stand down _now_ or else taste the fury of my blade." To reinforce the gravity of his challenge, he drew his energy sword, the twin tips of azure fire snapping into being. Behind them, Lieutenants Mosley and Calhoun leapt to their feet, sidearms drawn and leveled.

On the screen, Captain Dare seemed to grow larger. "Rear Admiral Zero-Eight-Four is not—" She was cut off by the male in the wheelchair, who reached out and grabbed her wrist. Before he had seemed like he was on the verge of a fatal seizure, not much left in him but the life he clung to fervently, but now... something was different. His eyes had changed, from tormented by pain to renewed by an inner determination.

"Major 'Tahamee, am I correct?" The male spoke carefully, pausing when needed to collect his thoughts and keep himself from tripping over his words. "Your people are a society of warriors. You cannot respect those who never faced combat, who did not once look their enemy in the eye as they shed their blood. It is a noble consideration, but your devotion to it is hypocritical.

"As you said, your ships hovered above our worlds and glassed them from orbit, giving neither your troops nor mine the chance to prove themselves. It is as dishonorable an action as I have ever heard. It is true, I never got the... chance to fight by my brothers' and sisters' sides on the front, but humanity knows another trait besides honor or strength. That is cunning.

"So calm yourself, and know that despite the fact that I have been trapped behind a desk at the rear lines, I have done more to kill my enemy than you ever have." As he concluded the shaking returned, more violent than before. Quickly two human medical officers rushed in and wheeled him out, and Maka realized that every time he had raised his hand, it was not a motion towards the assembled Sangheili but waving off the help he desperately needed.

The Arbiter deactivated his energy sword and turned to the captain. "I apologize, but I wish to ask for a recess, so both parties may get their tempers under control. In return, I will give you a tentative acceptance of the terms you have outlined."

"Good," she replied. "Thank you. We may not be able to reconvene right away. The orbital facility we currently occupy will be on the far side of Earth in only a couple of hours, and with most of our satellite network down, we can't relay a signal. Be prepared to rejoin us in a day. Dare out." The signal vanished.

Lieutenant Calhoun holstered her sidearm. "As part of ONI's on-site interrogation unit, I'd like to question you over the next few days regarding what you know of the Covenant's activity on Earth, as well as elsewhere. I already debriefed Sergeant Johnson and his team as to what happened on Delta Halo, but I'd like your perspective."

"Very well," said the Arbiter. "I would like a moment for discipline. May we step outside?"

"Be my guest."

* * *

In the hall, 'Tahamee turned to receive his scolding. "Arbiter, I—"

With a savage blow, the Major was knocked to the ground. The world spun around him, and as he tried to gain his bearings, he felt a great pressure on his neck. His eyes could barely focus, but he knew enough that the Arbiter was stepping on his throat.

"Do you sabotage these proceedings willingly, or do you truly have some foolish notion of superiority?" the Sangheili hissed. 'Tahamee tried to speak, but the armored hoof pressed harder. He decided to wait. "You seem to think that we are in a position of power that does not exist. Where are our fleets? Likely defending our people, females and hatchlings, from this schism threatening to destroy our way of life. Do you forget how much of our race was committed to the Covenant, and thus how many of our worlds now lie open to attack? Have you no family to fear for, 'Tahamee?"

The Major coughed. "We... should be consolidating... our... forces, not... forging a pointless alliance!"

After a moment, the Arbiter lifted his boot. "We do not only do this for our sake, or the sake of the humans." He turned to the two Minors present. "Do you understand? There is a threat greater than the Prophets, than the Jiralhanae, than any civil war we could fight. So far, the humans are the only species to view the Flood as a proper danger and react accordingly."

'Tahamee frowned but remained silent. He could see the Arbiter's reasoning.

"Using only their limited means," the Arbiter continued, "they have done more to halt the spread of the Parasite than we have with the Forerunners' advanced technology. On the first Halo installation, I witnessed their wisdom but did not recognize it for what it was: they realized the evil of the Flood and the destructive capabilities of Halo, and made the ultimate sacrifice."

The Major stood. "You speak so highly of them now, Arbiter, but you ignore the role you played in this war, a hero of the Covenant for participating in countless battles and destroying hundreds of worlds with the fleets you commanded."

"That life is dead to me now. It was lost the instant I was branded with the Mark of Shame."

"But the deeds outlive the individual, Arbiter. It would not be a surprise if your name were to appear on the list of leaders you so readily promised to the humans."

A tension filled the air. Usze had five tours worth of experience, dozens of years operating as a front-line combatant. The Arbiter, before his branding, had been a young upstart in the Navy with two campaigns before he was a Fleet Master, and hardly into his third when he was promoted to Supreme Commander. In all his time among the Covenant Armada, Usze had only ever attained the Major rank. He was aware of his own jealousy, but knew it would do him no good: when that Supreme Commander had become the Arbiter, it was simultaneously the promotion of a lifetime and a grim lifelong sentence. The individual who stood here had lost all rights to his name and his Lineage, for what was meant as a fleeting moment of penance.

Regardless, that the Arbiter supported such an alliance was of no interest to him. Instead, it was the two Minors' attitudes that he mulled over the most. Throughout his career, his duties had involved disciplining the young and brash, a duty which under different circumstances would have concerned both 'Fulsam and 'Sraom. Yet the more he considered it, the more he realized that their actions—though certainly guided by the clout of youth—were not improper.

Rather, in another light, they could be considered pioneers. Perhaps heroes.

"Will you reconsider your stance, or shall I dispatch you now?" The Arbiter once more dominated his attention, and the Major didn't fail to notice how he gripped the hilt of his plasma sword: he was ready and willing to back up his word.

"I will submit to you, Arbiter," said 'Tahamee, bowing low in shame, "and I was foolish to have disobeyed you." He straightened. "But I continue to think this cease-fire is being forged at an inopportune time. If we are as vulnerable as you say, it does us no good to adopt the vulnerabilities of others."

The Arbiter took his hand off the hilt, but the anger remained in his every fiber. "Your comments are noted, but do not undermine me again, Major. Lest _your_ name be among those we give to the humans."

* * *

Oriné 'Fulsamee stood on the highest observation deck of his outpost, letting the cool African night blow over him, relieving the pain of the day. He wished he could look out over the native wilderness, but his view was dominated by the dig site: dozens of ships slowly circled above the partially unearthed facility, occasionally firing piercing beams of plasma, burning away the soil and rock that still clung to it.

The Prophet of Truth would soon be here, and the Covenant rushed to make it as presentable a landing site as possible. His dreadnought would land at the very center of the Ark, triggering ancient systems, putting an epic something into motion. What it was, Oriné could not say, nor did he know. But it was all for the sake of the Great Journey.

Rurut stepped off the nearby gravity lift and waddled his way over. "Excellency," he said, holding up a holodrone, "the Prophet wishes to speak with you."

"Very well." The Sangheili commander turned to his companion. Oriné prostrated himself on the deck, noting the clicking sound and lack of sensation when his prosthetic came down on the metal. The Unggoy keyed the holodrone and dropped it on the deck, backing away and departing quickly: he was not worthy to be witness to this conversation. The drone activated, creating a hard-light, photorealistic holographic image of the Prophet in his throne.

"Your Holiness," Oriné said, "I am honored by your presence."

"Rise, Commander. The hour of my arrival draws near. How fares your ground campaign?"

Oriné stood. "It goes well, Holy One."

"Indeed." Truth seemed irascible, slowly tapping his slender fingers against the arm of his throne. "Bracktanus has passed along a report from one of your War Chieftains. It claims a most distressing thing: you are aware of the presence of the enemy, and even know the precise location of their warren. Yet you refuse to launch the assault."

Anger flushed Oriné's neck. "This report comes from Perojjus?"

"Perhaps."

"Noble Prophet, I will not speak a lie in your presence. It is true that I know the location of the hidden human base for several days, but I do not keep it secret. It has even come to my attention that some of my people have taken refuge among them. I do not launch the attack because I dare not let the humans know what I know. Given their position, they are in a very fortunate place from which they could disrupt our operations to uncover the Ark, but _if I let them think they are safe_, they will remain there. And when they are preparing to assault your dreadnought—for I am certain this is what they plan—_I_ will launch my assault and catch them unawares."

Several moments of silence passed. Oriné watched the bobbing hologram carefully as Truth assessed his words. At length, the Prophet straightened his posture to speak. "Your plan is one of subtle cunning, Commander. No wonder it upsets the Chieftains. I approve of your decision, but it would be wise not to let the humans grow in strength, lest they achieve the capability of truly disrupting the Journey."

"They will not, so long as they are under my careful scrutiny."

"Good. I will arrive on the human world tomorrow. Be prepared."

Oriné bowed low as the hologram flickered and vanished, holodrone dropping to the floor. He reached and picked up the small sphere of technology, turning it over in his hands. "Rurut," he called.

The door at the far end of the observation deck parted. "Yes, Excellency?"

"Find Chieftain Perojjus and bring him up here. I wish to have a discussion with him."

When the Jiralhanae arrived, he stepped out into the middle of the platform, where the Commander stood waiting. The creature of bulky muscle gave his begrudging salute. "You summoned me here why, Commander?"

"I will admit," began 'Fulsamee, "that I know little of your kind, Perojjus. Customs of the Sangheili and Jiralhanae are different in many ways, and I have not before had much inclination to learn. Tell me, when a Jiralhanae is hatched, how is it named?"

"We are not _hatched_," said Perojjus, sounding disgusted, "but we are born from live mothers. And we are not named immediately. Should he prove a burden on the pack, a cub will be tossed into the wild. Only when his progress can assure his elders that he is worth the effort of raising will he be named."

"And when are you considered an adult?"

"When our teeth are long and sharp enough to kill."

"And when are you considered a soldier?"

"When our teeth can kill a packmate."

"And when you are a soldier," asked the Sangheili, "what is the significance of speaking above your direct superior to _his _superior?"

For a moment, Perojjus did not answer. Then a toothy grin spread slowly across his face. "Such a thing would be interpreted as a challenge of command by my people, Commander. It is not a thing to be taken lightly."

"I suppose not." Oriné stared. "Draw your weapon, Chieftain."

Hesitating only a second, Perojjus unslung his Fuel Rod Gun and took aim at the Commander. 'Fulsamee did not move. The Jiralhanae fired, radioactive projectile igniting mid-flight and enveloping the Sangheili in a wave of energy. When the light had died and the smell of ozone faded, Perojjus was left staring at a sparking holodrone.

Oriné jumped away from the door, crossing the space between him and his opponent in a second. He swung his energy sword in a downward slash, deep enough to make the Chieftain bleed but not so deep that it would be mortal. Perojjus cried out in pain and fell to his knee; Oriné brought the blade to hover beside the wounded Brute's head.

"Attacking an opponent from behind," hissed Perojjus, "is honorable to a Sangheili?"

"No," replied Oriné, "but I am not doing this as a Sangheili. I am doing this as your superior, and speaking in the language of violence you chose to speak. You may hate me as you will, but it is unforgivable to undermine my command. I have been appointed as commander of the ground forces by the High Prophet, and you will respect that decision. Consider your challenge accepted and defeated, Chieftain, or you will lose your head."

They held their position in silence, until Perojjus hung his head. "As you wish... Excellency."

Oriné eased his grip on the energy sword and it snapped off.

"Rejoin your troops, Chieftain, and prepare. Our assault on the human stronghold will commence following the arrival of the Prophet."

Perojjus rose to his feet and hobbled off, hunched by his massive wound which oozed thick, black blood down his armor and stained his fur. Oriné wondered if he had truly cemented his command with this display of force, or if he was only delaying the inevitable mutiny.

* * *

Rising with the humans was an endlessly amusing feat. For lack of space, the Sangheili could not be quartered on their own and were instead directed to lie in the humans' barracks. In the mornings, the intercom would click, announce reveille, and play a strange tune. It was a horn—so N'tho said, but Maka wondered if he was wrong—loud, high, and rapid. So different from the drums and reeds familiar to his own people. Maka 'Fulsam could never find a picture of this tool, nor were the humans at all cooperative, so he was left with his imagination.

After waking, the humans rushed through a morning cleansing ritual in which they attempted to rub _off_ the oils on their skin. Even Major 'Taham found it to be laughably backwards, but the Arbiter had reminded them that Sanghelios was a far hotter, drier planet than this one, and so the rare malady that developed from having over-oiled was much more frequent on Earth. In consideration with the odd growths of hair the humans experienced, Maka soon revised his opinion, and no longer mocked their cleaning habits.

The morning meal was very similar to that of the Sangheili, though devoid of prayer—both the Arbiter and the Major maintained their faith, but the two Minors had ceased the practice. They found no more comfort in it.

Exercises usually followed, though for this the Sangheili were separated. According to Lieutenant Calhoun, they weren't allowed to observe how the humans trained, just in case the negotiations fell through. Instead, while the Major drilled Maka and N'tho, the Arbiter was led away to converse either with the Lieutenant or continue negotiations with ONI. Every so often, one of the other Sangheili was brought to a small room in which Lieutenant Calhoun sat and asked questions.

When she interrogated Maka, he found most of her questions benign enough that they only needed easy answers. Most were about life in the Covenant army, to which he was less acquainted than his companions: he had only just left Institution when the schism occurred. However, he willingly divulged details about his training, what had been asked of him, how it had been organized. More often than not, another individual would come into the room, ask questions, and leave.

Maka was less prepared for personal questions.

"What is your family unit like?"

"Do you have a relationship with your father, or any male family members?"

"Who has power over the household: your father, or your mother?"

"What is their relationship? Do they live together? Do they mate exclusively?"

"How much do you know about your siblings?"

"Is that true of all Sangheili?"

That last one was difficult to answer. Granted, most provinces on Sanghelios—and even the distant colony worlds—were in good communication, and there had been a high degree of homogenization since the species had joined the Covenant, but individual and family practices varied so differently from place to place that he could neither speak for them nor guess as to how different they were.

After that period, the rest of the day more or less followed a routine. 'Taham, 'Sraom, and 'Fulsam would spend their time trying to prove useful, doing chores or following duties assigned by the human officers while at the same time trying not to violate Lieutenant Calhoun's vague directions against "seeing too much." As a rule they were ordered to stay out of the motor pool, but it was relaxed when all three admitted to being proficient in the use of such vehicles, if not in the maintenance of them.

However, they had not been part of base life long enough that when there was a break in the routine, they barely realized. Things changed subtly at first, just a few antsy officers and the occasional nervous soldier, but soon Maka realized nobody was doing what they were supposed to be doing. An announcement was made over the loudspeaker, instructing all personnel to their stations.

N'tho looked to the Major. "Where is our station, Excellency?"

"By the Arbiter's side."

Since his outbreak during negotiations only a few days ago, 'Taham had changed his behavior significantly, but with care not to make it seem so. He was still a strict leader, but it was a different kind of harshness, no longer cruel. He had even, with no small bit of resistance, joined the Minors in dropping his military appellation.

The three of them made their way to the command center, where the Arbiter stood with the human commander. The large monitor showed the Lord Hood, but several of the smaller ones had changed to an orbital diagram.

"Lord Hood, we have to act fast."

"Stand by, Commander. We're in the middle of something."

'Taham stepped close to the Arbiter. "What is happening?"

"The Demon has reported in. He is aboard Truth's Dreadnought."

_The Demon_. Maka had heard stories, most of which he attributed to simple myth, but even veterans spoke of the Demons in hushed tones. Humanity's greatest and darkest weapon, scourge of the Covenant, blight of the galaxy: it was hard for the Sangheili Minor to reconcile such romantic notions with the reality he knew, but there was little doubt in his mind that the Demon was a force to be feared.

Perhaps admired.

The humans' radio crackled. _"Nassau Station, we have target lock."_

_"Roger that. Coordinates received. Light 'er up."_

A pause.

_"Targeting, confirm delivery of ordinance on-target."_

_"That's affirmative, Nassau, you cooked 'em."_

On the screen, Lord Hood smiled. "Good work, gentlemen."

Maka felt his mandibles slacken. "Did they truly just destroy Truth's ship?"

Commander Keyes shook her head. "No, we only managed to accomplish a secondary objective. We've tried everything short of a nuke to stop Truth, but it seems like he's going to be landing wherever he wants."

"He will attempt to dock with the Ark," said the Arbiter. "It is written that the Dreadnought was meant to power unimaginably large Forerunner constructs. The Covenant's digging operations are intended to uncover the section with which the Dreadnought must couple."

The commander bit at her nails. "And they've secured a wide range between here and there, just loaded with artillery and troops. There's no way we can get any anti-air emplacements set up in range of the dig site, and we can't... hmm..."

Hood looked down at her. "What are you thinking, Commander?"

"Sir, we're going to need a large aerial strike force."

"Negative. We don't have the resources to just throw into a Covenant flak wall and hope we get lucky."

"True, but if we were to knock out enough of the anti-air defenses and make a hole straight to the dig site..."

For a moment, the admiral thought. "You don't have the force strength to pull that off,

Commander."

"Not yet," she admitted, "but if we get the Chief down here with us..."

The admiral looked away. "What's the Chief's status?"

_"Sierra One-One-Seven, status update."_

_"I have commandeered enough material to make an effective heat-shield," _came the reply. Maka was surprised at the voice's depth and husk, even by Sangheili standards. _"Will be entering the atmosphere in the next several minutes."_

_"Can you estimate where your target landing zone is?"_

_"D—...ing... no rec—... Break—..."_

Keyes clenched her hand into a fist. "The Covenant must be jamming him. If he's still on trajectory with Truth's ship, we can bet his general attempt at landing will be at New Mombasa."

"We need observation teams out there, stat. We have to find out where he's coming down and get there before the Covenant."

The commander nodded. "I'll get a team of ODSTs on it, sir."

"Get it done."

"Yes, sir."

The admiral vanished and Keyes turned to the communications officer. "What's Johnson's status?"

"He's en route from the ONI orbital facility, ma'am, says his info session was good."

"Get him armored up. Wherever the Chief lands, he's going to be well into the Covenant's interest zone." She turned to the Sangheili. "We're going to need all the help we can get here, Arbiter. Would you be willing to help us out?"

Then she did something unanticipated. She held out her hand.

Maka watched, tense though he could not explain why. He recognized it as a human greeting custom, one of respect, and wondered if the Arbiter realized the significance—or what he had to do.

The ceremonially armored hero reached out and took the Commander's hand in a firm grip, his own digits almost swallowing hers. "You have my word."

"Thank you." She turned back to the matters at hand, leaving the Sangheili to ponder.

"When the Demon arrives, he will be beset by Brutes," muttered 'Taham.

N'tho nodded. "We must be ready to aid the humans."

"We should no longer speak of him as a Demon," said the Arbiter, still looking at his hand. "The humans call them Spartans, and we should endeavor to do the same." He glanced from warrior to warrior. "When the time comes, we must move quickly and quietly. Our best option is to scout ahead of the humans, find ways around the Jiralhanae patrols. It will be a difficult mission."

"We do as we are required by honor, Arbiter," said Maka.

The Arbiter regarded him a moment. "Then we prepare." They left the control room bound for the armory. Passing humans in the hall, 'Fulsam found himself still receiving cold glares.

Soon, he resolved, they would prove themselves to the humans.

He would be a war hero like his brothers.


	9. Honor's Survivors

Chapter 9: Honor's Survivors

The bridge of the _Cruel Augury_ was quiet. Sasa 'Golumee fought his irritation and boredom, eyes jumping from station to station that reported the same as they had several minutes ago.

Had it even been several minutes? Maybe it had only been a few.

He allowed his mind to wander. Ship Master 'Vadumee was long gone, leaving Ship Master 'Golumee to watch over the trapped Flood ship. He spent the first several hours on edge, watching for any sign of cunning from the Parasite, but the various sensor arrays had only told the tale of a trapped vessel, helplessly being pulled closer to oblivion.

At this point, 'Golumee was wondering why he delayed: Sanghelios was under attack and would require all the ships that could respond to defend her. The distress call was repeating on Slipspace channels, broadcast hundreds of light-years away; the Ship Master had endeavored to block the transmission so it couldn't continue dampening his crew's morale, but he hadn't the authority to override the emergency broadcast.

Ironically, only the Prophets had that authority.

"Excellency," reported tactical, "we are receiving telemetry from the Flood ship."

"Show me," said 'Golumee.

Data flashed by the screen. It seemed nonsensical, perhaps distorted by the irregular gravity and the high levels of ambient radiation.

"Tactical, what sort of data is this?"

"It is a short-range transmission, Excellency," the Sangheili said. "I... think it may be _meant_ for us."

"Is it in a compatible format?"

Hesitation. "No, Excellency, but it is close."

"Begin recovering and interpreting the data. Tell me as soon as you know what it is."

"As you command, Excellency."

The task would take several more hours, during which time 'Golumee allowed himself a respite of attention. If anything changed, he would be told. He discarded his tactical mind for the time being and thought instead of home, of his Lineage, and prayed that they would be safe. Over the past few days as they stood watch over the ruined Flood ship, he had intercepted troubling reports of how the civil war was progressing. Caught by surprise, many Sangheili fleets and systems were losing ground. But after Judge 'Orgalmae's speech—it had been the only message 'Golumee allowed his crew to see—it seemed like things were becoming organized once more.

Still, he had received confirmation that the colony world of Providence had been glassed, and a massive explosion in space had destroyed Joyous Exultation as well. Already, just weeks into the war, the casualties numbered in the millions.

The tactical rune flashed. "Excellency, I have decoded the transmission. You will want to see it yourself." The central viewscreen flashed to life, and 'Golumee was confronted with a haunting, violet image. A human female was visible, awash in purple light and with jagged lines of moving text flowing over her body. Her pose seemed listless, maybe agonized—she was reciting a string of numbers urgently, but it seemed her attention was elsewhere.

"Tactical, what is the meaning of this?"

"I cannot be certain, Excellency, but the numbers she speaks resemble coordinates."

"Is there anything logged there?"

A pause. "No world is named, but the Prophet of Regret led a small Inquisitorial expedition there just prior to his discovery of the second sacred ring. If he found anything there, our database was never updated with the information."

'Golumee had no idea what that could mean. "Find any logs we have of Regret's mission, we shall search for—"

"Excellency! The Flood ship is charging its Slipspace capacitors!"

The Ship Master's head snapped up in alarm. Impossible; there was no way to accurately plot the jump needed to escape the wild gravity signature being generated by the black hole. Yet he watched as a hole was torn open into the alternate space and the enemy accelerated into it.

His stomachs went cold. "Communications! Open a channel to Sanghelios, emergency broadcast!"

* * *

Dawn had barely broken as the Phantom began its final approach to the Dreadnought. It settled down on an extended landing pad, allowing Oriné 'Fulsamee, Bracktanus, Perojjus, and a host of other Jiralhanae Chieftains to disembark through the gravity lift.

Oriné's knees felt slightly weak as he took a few tentative steps on the holy vessel. In High Charity, he had spent hours gazing at it from afar, never allowed to even get closer than the temple district. Now he _stood_ on it, and the feeling was overwhelming. The ship itself was incredibly massive, easily dwarfing any and every class of ship in the Covenant fleet; it looked like a single titanic pylon supported by three equally large struts. It had come to rest on the uncovered Forerunner structure, and glancing over the edge, Oriné could see clusters of light where before there had been only dark, geometric lines.

"Come, 'Fulsamee," Bracktanus growled. "His Holiness awaits us."

Oriné fell into step with the rest of the congregation, being led by Jiralhanae Honor Guards through the hallowed passageways to some central command area. All around him, the Brutes sneered as he passed, but they did not attack—likely out of some deference for his armor. At this same point in his Special Operations career, Oriné had become used to his uncomfortable black armor, broken it in; for whatever reason, he wasn't able to do the same with this suit.

They emerged into a vaulted chamber, Oriné assumed somewhere in the belly of the ship. The Prophet of Truth sat in his hovering throne, surrounded by his Honor Guards. As one, the summoned commanders and leaders knelt.

"We have come as summoned, Your Excellency," said Bracktanus, speaking for the group.

"Rise, all," intoned Truth. "You have done well and served me loyally. Now see how far we have come on the basis of such fidelity: the dreadnought, artifact of the most supreme power, rests in its rightful cradle. Soon the Ark shall be awoken, and the Great Journey will begin."

A collective shiver ran through the chieftains, and Oriné felt it as well.

The Prophet continued, "However, the humans muster their final resistance. They have been unable to halt our holy light, unable to prevent us from achieving what is rightfully ours. Their final moments will be agony and shame, while we rise into divinity. But we must ensure they cannot undo us. Already we believe the Demon has come to this planet, and our forces will scour the jungle until he is found.

"Meanwhile, there is the small matter of their base. Perojjus." The Brute stepped forward. "We have ascertained the coordinates of the humans' control center in the area. You will personally lead the assault and discover how much they know about the Ark."

Perojjus grinned eagerly and saluted. Oriné's stomachs knotted themselves up; his careful planning was now useless. His plot had involved waiting for all the human assets to be assembled, then striking with an advance team of cloaked commandoes supported by a full assault carrier. Somehow he doubted the Jiralhanae's plan would have the same level of sophistication.

Despite his outrage, Oriné did not speak as the Prophet hovered back and forth, eyeing the commanders. He felt like he, specifically, was being singled out and observed. Years of practice hiding his emotions served him well, but he felt an old yet familiar pressure inside him; an inner defiance.

_You condemned my sister to death_, it smoldered. Oriné's twin hearts beat slightly faster.

As his internal boldness reluctantly subsided—with a certainty that it would return—the Sangheili realized he had missed a great deal of the Prophet's speech. It seemed His Holiness had just begun giving religious invectives, quoting scripture while the Jiralhanae stood at rapt attention, apparently drinking up every word. Oriné struggled not to think how many times he and all his people had done so, and how they were rewarded for their faith.

No, he forcibly corrected, how they were rewarded for their _heresy_. Whatever the Sangheili had done to get them excommunicated was a dire breach of the Prophets' trust and of the principles upon which the Covenant had been founded. Their treason was their own fault.

His loyalty was his own reward.

Truth dismissed them, but at the last second called Oriné back. Out of the corner of his eye, the Sangheili saw anger twist Bracktanus's face; the Brute Chieftain still resented the special treatment the former Special Operations commander was receiving. Oriné slipped his own satisfied reaction into the recesses of his mind, to enjoy it later.

"Commander 'Fulsamee," said the Prophet. "I wished to congratulate you on your dedication."

"You are too kind, Your Holiness," Oriné replied, bowing his head. "I am but a tool to serve the Covenant. You are the hand, and the divine will of the Forerunners is the mind." It was a calculated statement, a purposeful change to the normal scripture. He studied the Hierarch's face intently and saw the slightest twitch; ordinarily the Prophet was the mind, the highest authority.

Perhaps his earlier boldness would prove a useful thing to have.

However, Truth didn't take the bait. Instead he gave a deep nod. "You are wise, Commander. The Forerunner truly determine the Path which we all walk." He paused a moment as they passed a window—or, more accurately, a vividly detailed, true-colored hologram panorama of the surrounding landscape. It reminded the Sangheili of the view from his own outpost, though without the pleasant feeling of the wind and the sun.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Truth muttered.

Oriné didn't answer right away. "It is tainted by heresy, Your Holiness."

"I have an assignment for you, one that will require your particular skills." Truth hovered away from the view and continued to orbit the massive chamber. Oriné realized that he saw no command or control consoles; now he was uncertain if this was the bridge, or a room of different importance. "It has come to my attention that the Sangheili are on this world," Truth continued, cutting into Oriné's reverie, "and they seek an alliance with the humans. Prior to my arrival, I received word of a band of Sangheili survivors gathering in the jungle nearby, searching for an opportunity to strike and defeat our plans.

"You must locate them, root them out, and execute them." The Prophet turned his veined orange eyes upon Oriné. "This must be accomplished quickly. Follow the reports of my operatives and kill these traitors. This will prove beyond a doubt that you are worthy to commence the Great Journey."

For a moment, the Sangheili could only stare. At length, be bowed low. "As you will, Your Holiness."

* * *

Maka 'Fulsamee pressed through the foliage, followed noisily by the humans in Sergeant Reynolds's squad. Half a kilometer away, Sergeant Johnson was heading straight for the Demon's crash site, along with the Arbiter, N'tho 'Sraom, and Major 'Taham.

Maka had volunteered to go with Reynolds. Their objective: be the first to intercept any incoming Covenant, and the Sangheili knew Truth couldn't let so ripe a target go uncontested.

The sun was only just now coming up.

"Damn," one of the soldiers muttered. "It's beautiful out here."

"What, you want to stop and take a picture?"

"This is the stuff that poets dream of. You ever read Whitman?"

"Who?"

The conversation lapsed into silence. Maka hesitated for a moment before replying, "I agree."

The Marines exchanged a glance. "You... what?"

"This vista is breathtaking," he elaborated. "I was raised on Sanghelios, my people's home world. It is very similar to yours, though not as... wet."

"Cut the chatter," Reynolds hissed. "'Fulsam, you get anything yet?"

Maka checked the Battle Net. He was still picking up some chatter from Covenant forces, but so far no mention of the Demon had come up. "No, but it will only be a matter of time."

They continued their slow trek. After a few minutes, Reynolds keyed his radio. "Johnson, what's your status?"

"We're approaching the crash site," replied the Sergeant Major. "Stand by, Gunny."

"Roger that. Bravo Team, hold up."

They took cover positions and waited. It was an agonizing several minutes, during which time Maka nervously scanned the Battle Net. There was a growing amount of information passing back and forth, including coordinates that were alarmingly close to where they were currently hiding.

More than any of the other transmissions, though, one stood out. An advance scouting team was nearby, though who they were looking for was unknown. Waving, Maka drew the Reynolds over.

"A pack of Jiralhanae prowls nearby," he whispered.

The sergeant fixed him with a look. "How big?"

"Not large, likely two or three Brutes with a small Unggoy escort. Perhaps a few Jackals ahead of them as forward scouts."

"Roger that." Reynolds turned to his team. "All right, we'll stay put until we either fall back or figure out where this patrol is." He turned back to the Sangheili. "Can you get a fix on their location?"

"It will take but a moment."

"Do it." The sergeant moved low among the group, reassuring soldiers with a friendly pat on the shoulder. As he triangulated their foes' location, Maka devoted some of his attention to watching the humans interact. They shared a deep bond of brotherhood, one that Maka understood among his fellow Sangheili but could never see between his people and those of the lesser castes. He had never called an Unggoy nor Kig-Yar his brother. Perhaps that lack of connection is what made the Covenant's bonds weak, when the humans—while not stronger—were certainly formidable.

The radio crackled. "Bravo Team, this is Johnson. We got him. Fall back to the extraction point."

"Roger that. Reynolds out." He made a swirling motion with his hand, and the Marines stood up.

"'Fulsam, you got those Brutes triangulated?"

"No," he muttered. "Perhaps they are confusing the Battle Net or simply moving too rapidly for me to pinpoint..."

A howl ripped through the air, thundering and shaking the leaves. Immediately the Marines hit the dirt, and Maka instinctively activated his active camouflage, his shield gauge vanishing with him. He recognized the hunting call of the Jiralhanae and how close it was. Had they been spotted?

"What was that?" one of the soldiers asked.

"A call for aid," Maka whispered, "but to whom I don't know..."

"Sergeant! Dead ahead!"

A group of Jiralhanae was approaching cautiously, glancing around. It seemed like they were unaware of the humans' presence—or Maka's. Reynolds cautiously raised a hand to his mic. "Johnson, you be advised," he whispered. "Hostiles are on the move towards us. I've got eyes on a Brute pack, three strong. Over."

When Johnson replied, the channel was clogged with static. "Say—... Gunny, you're—..."

One of the Brute's heads snapped towards Reynolds.

"Marines! Open fire!"

Assault rifle rounds ripped out of the bushes, tearing across the few yards of open air. The first Brute caught the brunt of the fire, but its shields held as it dove for cover. The other two Brutes snarled and fired their Spikers, rounds tearing through foliage and flesh.

Realizing his advantage, Maka flanked right, unholstering his Needler and firing. The pink projectiles tracked their targets through the air, but the Jiralhanae weren't caught completely unawares; they were able to dodge between trees, avoiding the great majority of the needles. Only a few pink slivers caught them, burying into their armor and popping ineffectively.

The Sangheili Minor crouched behind a tree, conscious that the blind return fire would cause him great harm in his unprotected state. He briefly entertained the idea of switching back to his shields, but understood the advantage of not being seen would lend great aid to the humans.

Bravo team used the distraction well, scrambling for better cover before opening up again. This time one of the beasts' shields fell, rounds taking off chunks of armor and fur. The Brute hit the ground, bleeding badly and unable to keep fighting.

When the humans paused to reload, Maka pressed the Brutes from the side, trying to circle around behind them. He avoided holding down the trigger and unleashing a vast hail of needles, instead focusing on short bursts to keep the Jiralhanae moving. For a moment, it seemed like the engagement would end in victory.

An unearthly hum filled the air, and Maka looked up in horror to see a Phantom come to a stop overhead. A shape dislodged itself from the side loading bay and fell to the ground, right in the midst of the Marines. The Brute Chieftain uttered a fierce growl before bringing his gravity hammer down, sending the soldiers flying. Some struck trees and boulders, never to get up again; others landed further into the woods, struggling to their feet. Several more Jiralhanae dropped from the Phantom, firing at the humans as they tried to regroup.

Maka felt himself freeze up. This was an overwhelming force, and he was cut off from his allies. He scrambled into a shadow and crouched low, hoping the darkness would help his camouflage.

What few Marines remained dashed off into the jungle, the Brutes giving chase. As the Chieftain started to go, the two surviving Jiralhanae from before rushed up to him and barked something in their guttural language. Maka couldn't understand a word of the conversation, but realized what had happened when the Chieftain turned in his general direction.

"I know you are there, Sangheili dog!" he snarled. "I smell your fear and naïveté! You cannot hide forever!"

A quick check on his HUD confirmed it: Maka's cloaking battery was more than halfway depleted. If he didn't disengage it and give it time to recharge, it ran the risk of overheating.

But among his opponents was a Brute Chieftain, with strong power armor and a deadly weapon. Even with all his remaining ammunition and grenades, he doubted that he could kill all three.

Faced with life or death, Maka swallowed his shame and fled into the jungle.

* * *

Commander 'Fulsamee did not leave the dreadnought and return to his outpost. Instead he remained in the centralized command area, guarded by dozens of Covenant cruisers and assault carriers. He had requested Rurut come join him, and now had the companionship of his long-time friend to help keep him focused.

"Excellency," the Unggoy said, "we have located two human dropships by the river."

Oriné glanced at the hologram map. "That must be the extraction point mentioned in their transmissions," he said. "Divert ground forces for intercept and vector two Banshees for an aerial attack. If we take down those dropships, the humans will have no choice but to go back into the jungle."

A Brute Captain approached. "Our forces have been defeated by the waterfalls."

"How? Did they not bottleneck the humans in the caves?"

He shook his mangy head. "Akronus ordered them stand and fight in the open."

"Pursuing glory will serve no purpose when facing the Demon," Oriné said. "Where is Akronus now?"

"He hounds the other group of humans, attempting to drive them to the river."

Oriné considered the map. "Well, he is doing something correct for once. They will be driven into our waiting ambush at their extraction point."

Rurut tapped through a Lumidex. "I have just received a series of reports about local Battle Net activity, Excellency."

"And?"

"It seems there is an increasing amount of unauthorized access."

Grudgingly turning himself away from tactical coordination, Oriné studied the data coming in. Most usage signatures and transmissions were easily identifiable, but he noted one that was not registered. There was no declarative code prefacing any of the access, and he noted that there were no actual transmissions. Whoever it was simply listened.

"Have any troops reported Sangheili on the battlefield?"

"I will check." Rurut reported back several minutes later: "Akronus claims that his troops were attacked by a single Sangheili warrior. He fled, but Akronus sent two of his scouts after him to track him down."

Oriné pursed his mandibles. "He may be fleeing to his allies. Tell the scouts to hang back and report if they find more." He thought for a moment. The Prophet was expecting him to handle it personally. His tactical mind, honed by years of pragmatic battlefield experience and Special Operations training, told him to go in quiet, but there was no way the Brute infantry could handle that.

A thought flashed through his mind: while planning his assault on the human base, he had requisitioned a full unit of Brute Stalkers. Like the Elite Special Operations, they were not driven by the same thirst for blood that defined the rest of their kind. Furthermore, because of their unflinching loyalty to the Hierarch, they would follow the Sangheili commander's orders. A quick check to the Battle Net confirmed that, prior to Oriné's reassigning by Truth, his requisition had been granted and not yet rescinded.

And since Perojjus hadn't requested them yet...

"When the scouts report in," he told Rurut, "I will go myself."

The Unggoy perked up. "I am prepared to depart immediately."

"No." Oriné watched his former sub-Commander's eyes. There was a flash of disappointment. "I need someone here to coordinate things from afar. There is no one else I can trust with this."

The Unggoy bowed his head. "Very well, Excellency."

Rurut trotted off. Oriné watched him go. _Someday, my friend_, he thought, _this will all be over._ In his time as the Grunt's superior, Oriné had come to a deeper understanding of the Unggoy people. He hoped that, despite their low caste, they could find peace; and when the Great Journey truly began, they too would walk the path of the Gods.

* * *

Maka's vision was hazy. Slowly he realized he was lying on his back. He groaned, his mandibles feeling like they were hanging on by a thread. One tooth ground loosely against his gum.

Awareness returned slowly. The Sangheili forced himself up on his elbows, shaking his head lightly to clear his eyes. The congestion faded from his head, and he saw three other Sangheili standing opposite him. Their faces were unfamiliar, though their armor had the same blue as Minors, but slightly off-color. Navy shade, Maka realized, as opposed to his own Army shade.

He raised a hand in greeting, but realized that they were pointing weapons at him.

"Hold," growled one.

Maka waited.

A fresh scar adorned the speaker's face. He turned to one of his companions, a Sangheili of shorter-than-average stature. "We were sent upon reports of humans in the area, but instead we find a traitor. What shall we do?"

The smaller one clicked his mandibles. "The cost of treachery is death."

"I am no traitor," Maka said.

The scarred one's eyes blazed. "When I said hold, filth, I meant also your tongue!"

"The traitor here is the Prophet. It is his blood that should be spilled, not mine."

"Any Sangheili who would foul himself allying with the humans is equally as treacherous as the vermin San 'Shyuum," he said, using the Prophets' proper name.

The third Sangheili had remained stoically quiet, sizing up Maka from afar. At a glance, the young 'Fulsam could see the other's armor was covered in honor markings. Most had been carved with a laser, likely at a ceremony, but a few had been recently scratched into the surface with a sharp object. Maka knew enough to recognize him as a valiant if reckless warrior.

From his own relaxed stance, the honored one spoke: "We shall take him to the Major."

The scarred one scowled, but lowered his weapon a hair. "On your feet then, traitor."

With little recourse, Maka rose and followed the trio as they left.

Some time later, they came upon a cluster of trees, around which natural barricades had been erected among the scraps of what appeared to be starship plate. The scarred one approached one such cover and banged the butt of his weapon hard against its surface.

"Who goes?" a voice shouted.

"Scout team Seraph, returned with a prisoner," replied the scarred one.

A moment later, the panel was pushed roughly aside, and a Sangheili with scorched armor bade them enter. He eyed Maka warily as he closed the door.

Inside was a rough encampment, cobbled together from various survival packs and whatever natural resources could be found nearby. It followed a rough approximation of a standard Covenant outpost, with what Maka assumed was the command center placed in the middle of radiating spokes of other buildings. Plasma turrets had been erected around the walls, pointing out of hinged doors and manned by Unggoy.

The trio brought him to the central building, where, once inside, Maka's suspicion was confirmed. Tables had been salvaged or built, and upon them were laid out weapons, armor components, and diagrams. In the corner, a human radio hissed, occasionally clearing into intelligible words.

Sangheili and Unggoy bustled about, all of low rank, but in the center was a crimson-armored Major. Like all the personnel he had seen so far, Maka noticed the color of his armor was a shade lighter, denoting naval origins.

The trio stamped their hooves and saluted, eliciting a glance from the Major. "Excellency, we have brought you a prisoner."

The Major eyed Maka carefully. "You bear the Army's color on your harness. Am I to understand, then, that the Arbiter was successful in escaping the _Drowned in Honor_?"

"Yes, Excellency," he replied, obeying protocol. "Are you all fellow survivors?"

The Major nodded. "We are all that remains. Our various escape pods followed their emergency programming, entering the atmosphere and landing on solid ground. After we established a camp, we realized that, aside from the Jiralhanae scum, there was still an active human element." He closed his fist slowly. "We shall crush the life out of them, so when the rescue fleet arrives from Sanghelios, they may begin the Great Journey more easily."

Doubt settled in Maka's stomach like a stone. He and N'tho had discussed the possibility of the Great Journey still being true, but both had heard first-hand the Oracle's testimony. The ancient Forerunner construct had left little room for question when it outlined the functionality of the Halo array.

It wasn't impossible, however, to think of others not as strong-willed, clinging to the false hope the Journey promised.

"Excellency," he began carefully, "we are under orders by the Arbiter to lend our aid to the humans."

The Major's eyes flashed with fury. "The humans?" He suddenly drew his sword, snapping it to life. "I was a navigator serving under a glorious Ship Master. It is because of the humans that such glory was extinguished too soon!"

"I wish to know one thing," Maka said. "Do you still serve the San 'Shyuum?"

The Major looked flustered. "Do not be a fool. We understand their treachery readily."

"Then why do you disobey the Arbiter?"

"Though the Covenant has sundered itself, that is no reason for the desperate alliance proposed by the Arbiter and his fellows around the sacred ring." He paused, sizing up Maka. "You are not without wits, young warrior, and I do not despise the Arbiter for his choices."

"What will you do with me?"

The Major deactivated his sword. "I will not execute you. Not yet. You will be a captive under my thrall, and perhaps in time you will relearn your honor."

Two nearby warriors stepped forward to lead Maka away, but one suddenly stopped short. He gurgled and a purple froth bubbled up between his mandibles. He dropped to the ground, dead.

"What sorcery is this?"

The camp exploded into chaos. Weapons were drawn, everyone glancing around anxiously. An Unggoy screamed, suddenly hauled into the air.

Realization.

Plasma filled the air, several bolts splashing off the Brute Stalker's shield. It howled, half a war cry and half full of pain. Suddenly invisible weapons began discharging, tearing holes in those caught off-guard and unshielded.

"We are infiltrated!" called the Major. "Fight for your honor!"

He took a few steps towards the center of the fray, but was suddenly and violently pushed back. A new shape appeared, the film of active camouflage peeling back. Maka immediately recognized the angular style of Jiralhanae armor, but the silhouette that wore it did not match.

It was a Sangheili.

The Major seemed equally surprised, gaping at the warrior. "Who...?"

"I am Commander Oriné 'Fulsamee," the other said.

The words hit Maka hard. He unconsciously took several steps backward. _Impossible!_

Oriné snapped on a sword in his right hand as a Jackal shield flared to life on his left. "For your transgressions against the Holy Covenant," he continued, focused on the Major and not noticing Maka nearby, "you have been deemed a heretic by His Holiness, the Prophet of Truth." The Sangheili commander fell back into a practiced stance. "Pay for your crimes with your blood."

The Major was furious. He activated his own sword and brought it up. "Traitor! You betray your people for that deceitful worm!" He lunged.

Maka watched the duel unfold with a mixture of horror and awe. It became clear quickly that the former navigator for the _Drowned in Honor_ was no novice at swordsmanship, but it was equally apparent that Oriné was an expert. Every attack and counter-attack by the Major was parried or deflected; returns from the commander were barely avoided. Oriné's weapon sliced through armor and bit deeply into flesh. No one wound was mortal, but that was a conscious decision by the wielder.

Oriné let the fight drag on, while Maka remained rooted to the spot, spectating.

Finally, the Major collapsed, the sum of his wounds mixing with his exhaustion. His final act was a glare of defiance at his killer before the sword dropped and extinguished him.

Slowly, Maka realized the battle was over. No other Sangheili stood.

In a panic, he triggered his active camouflage and ran.

* * *

Oriné had been so involved in his duel that he had not noticed the Minor nearby until a moment before he cloaked and fled. In that moment, the commander felt like he was looking back in time. He knew the look of shock that had plagued the youth's face well; it was one of a world being torn away. He had worn it himself when Fulsa had been condemned.

The Stalker Captain appeared at his elbow. "Shall we pursue, Commander?"

Hesitation stalled Oriné's reply. "Track him," he spoke finally, "but do not engage. He may yet lead us to other holdouts." He glanced at the Brute beside him. The Stalker armor had been designed to instill maximum fear in the target, with dusky grey coloration and a single, menacing red eye in the center of the helmet. Each member of the Stalker unit was outfitted with cooperative active camouflage/shielding units, making them even more deadly than their vicious training already accounted for.

Many of them carried plasma rifles, but some bore Maulers, Jiralhanae sidearms that had more in common with a human shotgun than with any Covenant weapon.

He turned and conducted a quick survey. One Stalker had fallen and three more were visibly wounded. He looked to the captain. "How fares Perojjus's assault?"

The captain consulted the Battle Net. "He failed in his objectives and the base was destroyed by the humans."

Oriné scowled. "And Perojjus?"

"Fallen during the operation, reportedly killed by the Demon."

"Confirmation?"

The Jiralhanae tilted his head slightly. "No surviving witnesses, Commander, though the Demon's presence was confirmed at the base prior to the assault."

"Very well. Gather your troops and fallen, Captain, and report back to the Phantom. We shall return to the dreadnought and report to the Hierarch." The Brute saluted before barking orders to his subordinates.

Oriné glanced back in the direction the lone Sangheili had fled. For a moment, there had been more familiarity to the figure than just his look of surprise.


	10. Conquest and Shadow

**Author's Note:** As you might imagine, I've been very busy recently, particularly finishing up my coursework to graduate from college. Now that I'm facing an abundance of free time, I'm hoping to catch up with the rest of this story and finish it before the end of the year. (Saying that, I hope I don't jinx myself.) I estimate we're more than halfway through the story now.

* * *

Chapter 10: Conquest and Shadow

Maka 'Fulsamee ran hard and fast, the shame of what he had done licking at his hooves. He ran until his muscles ached, until his knees began to lock, until his lung was begging for rest. When he finally did collapse, it was into sobs.

_Pathetic_, he chided himself, trying to pull himself together.

He knelt at the base of a tree, leaning his shoulder against it. Everything had gone so wrong. His whole life, he had been raised to love the Covenant, taught in seminary, on Jisako, in Institution. Among his friends he trained, his father and brothers swallowed up by the war, his mother...

Maka did not care to remember his mother. In public she was taciturn, cold; in private, she spoke against the Hierarchs, their representatives, the High Council. The heresy in her words stunned him. She was angry at the universe for taking her family. When his time had come to go to Jisako, she had begged him to stay in their flat, to hide on Sanghelios. They could leave, she told him, go to a farming commune far away, work for the rest of their lives and be free from the Covenant.

But he had turned away, cursed her. Upon his return, he had seen her only once, during his Ceremony of Appellation. She stood in the back, watching. When the presiding Fleet Master had released them, he looked for her, but couldn't find her anywhere. He dared not return to their home. Instead, he had stayed with friends until it was time for him to go to war college.

Everything was wrong. The Covenant was supposed to stand against the ages, survive all challenges; not sunder itself along lines of species or creed. On High Charity, when the schism occurred, most of his friends had broken. Some had panicked and fled, others took up arms against their own kind, but most had simply knelt and waited for death.

Only Maka's mother had prepared him. Though he rejected it, when she spoke of the Prophet's evil, he listened. It had become a part of him, and he didn't realize it until he was surrounded by enemies.

_Damn her_.

He struggled up onto his shaky legs. He had not yet considered the ramifications of what he had just seen: his own brother, Oriné 'Fulsamee, working _with _the Jiralhanae. No, more than that. It was just seeing his brother _alive_. Maka had seen many recordings, watched his brother receive the Etching of Glory on a live transmission while he was en-route to High Charity following his Commencement.

Then the reports: Oriné 'Fulsamee, hero of the Covenant, dead. Killed on the human home world, working to exterminate the human pestilence.

Now... now a traitor.

Maybe.

Maka glanced around, trying to determine where he was. He had run blindly, though the Brute Stalkers had probably followed him. If they hadn't engaged him yet, it was because they were hoping he'd lead them to more of their foes.

In that case, his position was already compromised.

He accessed the Covenant Battle Net and quickly triangulated his position. He wasn't far from a major human highway, and further investigation quickly determined that the Covenant were patrolling it. The Crow's Nest had been destroyed by Covenant action, but there were no reports of Sangheili killed in the attack. Furthermore, there was a human city nearby—Voi—where the human and Covenant battle lines were forming up. If the Arbiter was still alive, that's where he would go.

He had to find the Arbiter and tell him.

The road wasn't far, but it was deserted. The Covenant had regular patrols, but this highway was not considered vital, and so they were far apart. Likewise, he hoped it wasn't patrolled in force.

Ruins of human vehicles were scattered along the pavement. Maka picked his way through the detritus, hoping. Eventually he identified one of the human war vehicles, a Warthog. The bodies of the soldiers were strewn about. Maka observed a moment of sorrow for them. In a very short time, he had come to understand and respect their position.

They did not deserve this death.

In the Warthog, he found crates of supplies. Most had been destroyed, but he found an intact weapon among them. He recognized it from his time at the base, a firearm called a "Battle Rifle." A number glowed on a small display near the rear of the weapon: 12. He tested the scope, located the trigger mechanism. A search of the crates yielded magazines of ammunition, and through trial and error he identified two that would fit his current weapon.

The rifle had better long-distance capability than his Needler. It would be perfect for an ambush.

Maka stepped off the road and nestled himself into the brush. He waited.

Now he had time to think. Oriné had been left for dead on this planet, but it was clear he had survived. Cut off from the rest of the galaxy, how could he have known the Prophet of Truth's betrayal?

He couldn't. If Covenant Loyalist forces had found him, then, and discovered his ignorance...

Oriné was no enemy, he was an unwitting puppet.

The steady thrum of an anti-gravity engine caught Maka's attention. He turned on his active camouflage and made ready.

Around the bend came one of the Brute's rough vehicles, a large bladed wheel at the front of the craft. A Brute controlled the vehicle from the back; briefly, Maka wondered how the beast could even _see_ what was ahead of him.

He waited a moment. No second vehicle approached, nor did the Brute notice him. After the vehicle—a Chopper, he recalled—passed, he cancelled his camouflage, sighted his foe, and fired. The rifle bucked hard against his shoulder, but Maka had anticipated it and compensated immediately. He sent two more bursts into the Brute's head, popping the shield and then piercing the skull. As the body went slack, the Chopper swerved into the pile of ruined vehicles and powered off.

Maka approached carefully, confirmed that his quarry was dead, and pushed the body out of the seat. He eased himself down and looked at the controls. They were in a standard layout, though unfamiliar. He powered it on, and was relieved to find a mounted camera on the front that relayed an image to the control seat.

He eased the throttle forward. It would take him a few hours to reach Voi, but hopefully he could get there in time.

* * *

The hulk of the enemy carrier loomed in front of the Phantom, silhouetted by the light reflecting off Qikost behind it. Anli 'Rutas held station for a cautious moment before slowly moving his dropship closer.

At the appropriate range, an identification tag flashed to life: the carrier's name was _Conquest Unbroken_.

The pilot knew the rest. It had been a Jiralhanae ship when it jumped into the battle above Sanghelios, later disabled by an energy projector blast and a flight of skilled Seraphs. Long ago, in war college, Anli had toyed with the idea of becoming a Seraph pilot, but found the craft too jumpy. He much preferred the graceful, controllable Phantoms.

Beside him, Balask 'Zakam leaned forward, clad in full Assault harness. "We are approaching the objective, Ship Master," he growled into the Battle Net.

Rtas 'Vadum replied from afar: _"Very well, warrior. Proceed."_

Anli didn't need any further instruction. He turned up the speed, swinging the Phantom past the derelict's landing bays. The energy projector had gouged several foredecks and the Seraphs had eliminated key junctions, cutting off power to the rear areas, including engineering.

The battle for Sanghelios was, for all intents and purposes, already over. After a solid week of carnage, the Sangheili had succeeded in driving off the would-be invaders. Now there was only clean-up duty, hunting stray Covenant loyalists on the ground and policing the orbiting detritus in space.

Like several others, _Conquest Unbroken_ had been designated by the Council to be refit and repaired under the Sangheili banner.

Anli admired the lines. It was one of the newer assault carriers recently rolled off Covenant assembly lines, mixing calming aesthetics with predatory grace. Most of the systems within would be top of the line as well, making this a true prize.

"I detect no defenses, Excellency," he said to the Operative beside him.

'Zakam huffed. "It has been days since she was made dead, unlikely that any of her crew survived."

"The primary core is offline, and the secondary is only running at half-capacity." Anli squinted at the readouts before him. Something was strange. "I am detecting an anomaly, however."

"Deadly?"

"Uncertain." He checked radiation levels. "Radiation is within tolerance, Excellency."

'Zakam stood. "Then we proceed."

* * *

The Phantom's doors lowered with agonizing slowness. There was no explosive decompression, as the oxygen had already been pumped out, but still Kasa 'Yonom felt apprehensive, waiting for the tug of atmosphere fleeing into the void. There was none.

"Forward," growled 'Zakam.

Kasa, his commander, and the Unggoy pushed off the edge of the Phantom, floating out into the empty dropship bay of _Conquest Unbroken_. No artificial gravity; he activated his antigravity pack, which would allow him to maneuver without atmosphere. He felt more than heard its tell-tale whine as he pushed onward, a quick glance over his shoulder proving that his comrades were also on the move.

The young Sangheili disliked fighting in cramped conditions, such as the halls of a ship. In war college, he had specialized in sharpshooting, showing great effectiveness with the Carbine and Beam Rifle—he even possessed limited proficiency with the Focus Rifle, a similarly accurate weapon normally reserved for the space-borne Elite Rangers.

But in the close, winding passageways that awaited him, his skills would be less useful. On his back he still bore a Carbine, just in case, but he carried in his arms a Plasma Repeater. It was a heavier version of a Plasma Rifle, capable of longer sustained bursts.

Kasa hoped its high rate of fire would offset any difficulties he had aiming.

"We must move to the bridge," 'Zakam instructed. "There we can investigate the damage and determine if the vessel is worthy of salvation."

Blessed Unit answered him as one: "Yes, Excellency."

The halls were empty as they moved. Everything was in complete vacuum so far, but it wasn't long before they found pressure doors that had sealed.

Kasa inspected the control panel. "These were sealed automatically."

"Open them," said 'Zakam.

Air howled out as he did so. Blessed Unit pushed through and closed them again. Though in an area of the ship that still had atmosphere, Kasa did not unseal his harness.

"Keep an eye out," 'Zakam said as he took point. "Our foes may yet live."

From there to the bridge was a long, uneventful trek. Once there, Kasa was relieved to find that the secondary power was maintaining the control panels. He did not know what had happened, but the bridge was a mess: walls had been destroyed, and several of the forward monitors were no longer functioning. Plasma scoring was everywhere. After clearing the area, he walked up to the command deck and surveyed the possibilities.

"Excellency," he reported, "it appears the primary core is intact. By chance, the system mistakenly believed it to have been breached, but all local sensors claim there is no such break in containment."

"That is good news," said 'Zakam. "Can you reactivate it from here?"

Kasa tried. "No. There is a manual switch in engineering that must be toggled."

"Very well. Take Opom and Nunot, and contact me when you have completed your assignment. I will then reactivate the primary core."

"Yes, Excellency." He motioned for the two Unggoy to follow and left the bridge.

It was even farther to engineering.

As they walked, the Unggoy chattered in their native tongue. Kasa glanced over. "What has you so agitated?"

"The darkness is uncomfortable," replied Nunot.

Opom nodded. "We cannot see very well."

Kasa's helmet had low/no-light capability. "I will take point."

The Unggoy looked surprised, but willingly stepped back to allow the Sangheili forward. It went against most established protocols, but things were changing since the dissolution of the Covenant.

The engineering section was eerily dark as well. With great care the task force picked its way through the floating debris, mindful of threats. There was still atmosphere in the ship; that meant anyone could survive as long as they could deal with the lack of gravity.

They narrowed their search to systems associated with primary core control. Kasa accessed the Ship Net to read diagnostic reports, but there were none. And another oddity crossed his mind:

"Where are the Huragok?"

The Unggoy glanced back at him. The Covenant Engineers should have still been active: they could breathe and benefited from locomotion via gas bladders. The lack of gravity would be a boon rather than a burden. And he hadn't seen any bodies on the way in, so they should be alive somewhere.

He turned off the computer. "We are going to the core."

The primary core was located at the center of mass of the carrier, and held in a large open space in which there was no gravity normally. Ordinarily, the core would take the form of a large swirling ball of plasma; systems would skim the energy necessary for power from the globe. At the moment it was a flickering strand of protons, fainter than usual but stark compared to the blackness of the ship around it.

Kasa did not like this.

"Follow me at a distance," he instructed the Unggoy. "Maneuver as little as possible. If there is an ambush within, I will require support."

"Yes, Excellency." Dutifully they hung back as Kasa advanced to the entrance, manually opened the blast door, and pushed out into the cavernous containment room. He fired his anti-gravity pack liberally, adjusting his course several times. If there were enemies here, he wished to lure them out.

He did not dare look back and compromise his companions as they followed him. He would just have to trust them.

It did not take long for his gambit to pay off. After a few moments, his motion tracker registered several contacts approaching from above and below. Yanme'e, the winged Drones of the Covenant, flitted along attack lines. Kasa brought up his Plasma Repeater and filled the air with blue bolts, succeeding in burning a few of his attackers and warding the rest away, but they opened fire with their Plasma Pistols, forcing the Operative to focus on evasive maneuvering.

A hail of pink needles filled the air as Opom and Nunot opened fire. The deadly-sharp projectiles tracked their targets, embedding themselves in the creatures' exoskeletons and popping. When enough entered one target, the needles timed themselves to explode and create a larger bang.

Kasa waved his thanks, hoping the Unggoy could see the motion.

The core grew closer, and now the Sangheili could make out the next obstacle: Jackal Snipers gripped the core's mountings with one hand and aimed Beam Rifles with the other. Kasa quickly swapped his Repeater for his Carbine and took aim, determined to get the first shot off. His weapon found its mark time and again, splattering the hardware with the aliens' ichor.

They were quick to return fire, but they were handicapped by one-handed aiming. Most were still oriented with up-down gravity in mind; only a few were smart enough to hook their feet onto the mounting and aim with both hands, but Kasa was sure to eliminate them quickly.

At last he hit the "upper" mounting himself, taking care of the last Jackal as he did so. He quickly maneuvered his way up to the manual toggle, a small hologram control panel hidden in the upper recesses of the hardware. He reached it, keyed in the override code, and waited.

The core warmed up gradually, the thin stream of particles swelling into a rough approximation of the globe shape he was familiar with, but something was still wrong. It didn't seem bright or active enough. He queried the mechanical systems and discovered the source of the anomaly.

"Excellency, this is Kasa."

Even over the Battle Net, 'Zakam's voice sounded irritated. "Go ahead."

"I have accessed the core. The survivors on the vessel have sabotaged it and dumped most of the plasma into the Slipspace drive. It will require a major refit."

"Have you eliminated the leadership element?"

Kasa looked at the floating bodies. He doubted the Kig-Yar could have put this plan together. "Negative, Excellency. There were no Jiralhanae in the core, and no Huragok."

He could hear 'Zakam huffing over the channel. "Very well. Withdraw. I will signal the Ship Master for more forces."

* * *

From the command deck of the super-carrier _Vigilance of the Eternal Guardian_, Rtas 'Vadum monitored the recovery efforts of the Special Operations units. Blessed was asking for additional support, as well as Sacred, Reverent, Humble, and Virtuous; it seemed that, at the last moment, the Jiralhanae had concocted a plan of sabotage to hinder the Sangheili's efforts. He cursed quietly, sure that none of the secondary officers could hear him. Occasionally the Brutes experienced a stab of intelligence, and it always happened at the most inconvenient times.

A chime sounded from the communications rune. "Excellency, a transmission from Sanghelios. It is tagged priority from the Council."

Speaking of inconvenience. "Let it through."

One of several screens dissolved into the face of Judge 'Orgalmae. "Ship Master."

'Vadum bowed. "Honored Judge. What is the cause of this pleasure?"

"Spare me. In my time as a Field Master, I was interrupted by the pitiless squawking of politicians often enough to know there was no pleasure to be had. How fares your mission?"

"We have retaken several ships already, though their conditions vary. Blessed Unit has just seized control of the _Conquest Unbroken_"—his eye flitted to the report to confirm—"but report it is in dire need of repairs."

"Then your mission proceeds well enough to do without you for a time. Designate a sub-Commander to oversee the Special Operations and return to Sanghelios." Rtas bowed as the Judge disconnected, then sighed bitterly.

"I still stand on the battlefield and already I tire of politics." He called for his Ship Commander. "Monitor the Operatives' communications and redirect resources as they dictate. They are intelligent enough to be prudent in their requests. If there is any major change, inform me over the Battle Net. I will return as quickly as possible."

* * *

Balask 'Zakam stood in the recovering light of the _Conquest Unbroken_'s command deck, watching each console as it came back to life. They reported power shortages throughout the ship, but except for the depressurized areas in the outer areas and the impact zone from the energy projector, everything seemed to be operating within normal parameters.

Of course, he was Special Operations, not Navy. The Engineers and Ship Masters would make the final decision.

The door behind him hissed open and Balask whirled around, unlimbering his human shotgun as he did so. He expected it to be Kasa and the Unggoy returning from their outing, but instead there was... nothing.

Strange. The power fluctuations could be causing doors to open. He turned back to the monitors... then swung back and let the shotgun roar. The buckshot spread wide, pinging off the shields of the Brute Stalkers that had just entered the room.

Balask fell into his trained motions, cloaking himself first and taking refuge. A long time ago, when testing for his admission into the Prophet Blessed, one of the combat trials he had faced was dueling an opponent while in active camouflage. The exercise had taken place in a large garden with varying terrain and ample cover. Both combatants were armed with energy swords, though due to their high-energy nature, the camouflage system could not conceal the blades themselves. Balask and his opponent had improvised a style of combat that did not activate the swords until the moment of the strike, minimizing the enemy's chance of noticing an attack and being able to parry or counter-attack.

The duel had lasted for several days, both warriors dedicated to victory. Balask had gained the upper hand, slaying the other candidate. Mercy was not a quality of the Prophet Blessed. The combat style later served him well on Reach, earning him many kills.

He was now without his blade, but he doubted the Jiralhanae had such rigorous training.

A long stretch of silence passed. Balask maintained his position beside one of the luminescent columns of the bridge that could act as light source, decoration, and tactical surface depending on the need. When the secondary core had reengaged, it had activated at maximum brightness; by standing just behind it, he ensured that only Stalkers coming at him from certain angles wouldn't be blinded to his presence.

The Jiralhanae's discipline broke first. "Has he gone?"

"Fool, no door has opened and there is no other means of access. He is trapped here."

Something sniffed deeply, close to Balask. He whirled, fired the shotgun, and dove to a new location. The Brute Stalker appeared, missing half of its face, lying on the ground. Curses rose up from the others, firing where Balask had been.

The Sangheili warrior heard four voices. He crept towards the nearest one he heard, taking each deliberate step in utter silence. It fired again, the discharges causing brief fluctuations in its camouflage. Balask lunged, gripping its head and twisting hard until he heard a meaty crack, then releasing the body and fading away.

He heard the hurried footfalls of two more approaching the body, intent on investigating. Balask unclipped a plasma grenade from his belt, carefully placing it on the floor by the body, and retreated.

They stopped moving. He saw the dead Jiralhanae's fur shift slightly from an invisible touch. He drew his sidearm and fired at the grenade.

Both Stalkers were enveloped in the tumultuous blue cloud, their camouflage and shields peeling away from the electromagnetic wave that preceded the burning fire. They clutched at their ruined flesh, howls becoming meek whimpers of pain.

Balask began to search for the final Stalker, holstering his sidearm and re-equipping his shotgun, when a discharge roared right next to him. The force of the blast popped his shields and knocked him over. As he hit the deck, he turned and fired at the source, illuminating his opponent's shield and blowing the weapon out of its hand. The Jiralhanae roared and fell on the Sangheili, ripping the shotgun out of his hands and tossing it aside before beginning to pound Balask with its fists.

Despite the stunning force behind the blows, Balask kicked high into his attacker's back, knocking it off-balance and allowing him to throw it off. The Brute righted itself quickly, but not before Balask drew his plasma pistol once more and began charging it. As the Brute lunged, Balask elbowed it hard to banish its shields and released the built-up energy into the thing's face. Its scream came to a gurgling finale before the body even hit the floor.

Balask allowed himself some time to catch his breath and let his shields recharge before walking over and picking up his shotgun. He reloaded it from the small ammo supply he carried—finding the right ammunition was difficult, especially this far away from human battlefields. He racked it, enjoying the satisfying noise, and replaced the weapon.

A moment later, Kasa 'Yonom and the Unggoy returned. The young Operative gawked a little at the dead bodies. "Were these here before?"

"No. I suspect they may be the source of your earlier obstacles. Stalker units go through similar training to Sangheili Special Operations." He spat on one of the bodies. "Similar, but inferior."

* * *

Rtas 'Vadum was annoyed to find that, when he stepped off his own dropship, the Judge had another dropship waiting to take him back up into orbit. Why could the Judge not have directed him to whatever destination he had in mind when he left the ship?

'Orgalmae seemed to sense the Ship Master's frustration. "I assure you, young 'Vadum, that there is a purpose to this."

"As you say, Honored Judge."

They boarded the other Phantom. As they did, Rtas heard a familiar humming. He gave the Judge a pleading look. "I am sorry," murmured 'Orgalmae, "but it was very insistent. It will not cease its entreaties to go to the Ark, and its penchant for lectures has the entire Council on edge."

The Oracle bobbed into view. "Ah, hello again!"

Rtas gave a polite but shallow bow. "Oracle."

"We must leave at once. If the Ark is active, it will take a Reclaimer to engage the containment protocols."

"At another time, Oracle," said Rtas. He turned back to the Judge. "What is this about?"

'Orgalmae looked grave. "You shall soon see."

The holographic view within detailed the dropship's ascension out of the atmosphere, through the large debris field made up of former ships and defensive structures. Rtas looked at it with a sense of responsibility: he should be there, directing the Special Operations teams as they salvaged the wreckage for the Sangheili war effort.

Instead, he was playing guest to a politician. The thought sickened him.

He studied their path. "We are going to Qikost?"

"Yes." The Judge stared absently at the hologram. "There are shipbuilding yards on the far side. Before this... this outbreak, the Council had commissioned a prototype vessel be built, a test bed for new technology and techniques to aid us in wartime."

"A new prototype?" Rtas struggled to recall what he knew about Navy production. Virtually every ship classification built by the Covenant was less than fifty years old. What was the call for a new class? The war against the humans had been trying, yes, but not for a lack of effective technology.

The moon was close now, the Phantom entering extreme orbit.

"We have learned much from the humans, Ship Master. I believe Institution taught you at least that much. But among their tactics, we have also learned some naval techniques. Intelligence gleaned from their wrecked ships have informed this new vessel's design somewhat. Do not give me that look, we have not moved the bridge. It remains in the center. However, their reactor layout is more efficient, as is their bridge layout. No longer will the Ship Master stand alone in his command center; the secondary bridge crew will be brought to the primary bridge, to be ordered directly by the Ship Master. No more runes, faulty communication. No Ship Commander needs stand in, so long as the bridge crew is aware of its duties."

The Phantom accelerated around the moon. An orbital station in geosynchronous orbit was visible now, a massive latticework structure that housed several ships in various states of construction. One had pulled out and sat in space like it was waiting.

On the outside it looked like any other assault carrier.

"Ship Master 'Vadum," said Judge 'Orgalmae, "I present you with your new command: the _Shadow of Intent_."

* * *

**Author's Note 2:** Yes, it's short. I wanted to finish this part and move on. The next one should be longer.


	11. The Price of Command

Chapter 11: The Price of Command

The halls of the newly minted assault carrier _Shadow of Intent_ had the smell of ozone, a lingering scent from the high-powered lasers that had carefully cut each length of deck plating from a master sheet. The lights were painfully clear and bright, making Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum's eyes tear up if he looked directly into them. While the ship itself retained its Covenant roots, much of the aspects of Forerunner design that had so informed previous generations of ships had been removed. This ship was more a killer than an explorer, more utilitarian than luxurious.

The Operative in him loved it.

Judge 'Orgalmae trailed behind the awestruck Ship Master, accompanied by his Honor Guard. Even though they were supposed to be the only ones on the ship, aside from some Huragok finishing up the last bits of wiring, the crimson-armored Sangheili refused to allow the Judge out of their sight.

Lagging furthest behind was the Oracle, floating in what seemed to be a dejected fugue.

"You will find the _Shadow of Intent_ a much more formidable ship than the one you stole from the Prophets," said the Judge to Rtas. "Her weapons are updated based on improvements the Oracle made to the _Purity of Spirit_, as well as some efficiencies we have noted from observing human ships in combat. The shields have cyclical strength, an adaptation we are hoping to incorporate into future combat harnesses as well."

Rtas barely heard any of it. They continued their walking tour, only exploring a fraction of the available ship space. Finally they came to the bridge, though at first the Ship Master failed to identify it as such. There were multiple stations spread about with two large screen set directly into the forward wall at an angle, rather than being projected into the air. In fact, looking around, every screen and control board was analogue, not holographic.

Below, visible through semi-transparent floor panels, were other stations, likely a standing tactical area. Those consoles and uplinks to the Battle Net would allow ground commanders to coordinate their troops while staying within shouting distance of the bridge crew, in case some emergency arose.

Further bewildering him was the appearance of chairs. The bridge crew had never been permitted to sit before, not since the pre-Covenant era. It had been a staple of the Covenant Armada that all personnel must remain alert, searching for threats and advancements along the divine path. Now, though, there was a chair for each station that hovered a few inches above the floor, as well as a centrally located one, behind which was situated a large tactical hologram projector.

The Ship Master touched the seat. "The command chair?"

"Correct," said the Judge. "It was meant to symbolize a return to our cultural roots, but given our current state of civil war, it will hopefully further cement our warriors' need for independence from the Covenant and their ways of thinking."

Rtas was struck by how easily the Judge spoke of the Covenant as a separate entity; the Ship Master still hadn't made that adjustment.

He eased himself into the seat. It was unfamiliar, but certainly not uncomfortable. "Is this the only ship of its class?"

"For the moment." The Judge wandered around, looking at all the inactive screens. His Honor Guards seemed content to wait at the entrance to the bridge, likely having realized the small room offered little in the way of attack avenues. "Future additions will depend on this ship's performance. However, several cruisers are being refitted with some of these refinements, including updated bridge layouts where possible. They will be accompanying you."

"Accompanying me?" Rtas stopped playing with the chair's built-in holographic terminal. "To where?"

"Earth, of course."

"When will we be leaving?"

'Orgalmae clicked his mandibles. "When appropriate. Perhaps another week. We cannot expect to effectively reinforce the humans if our own situation is still so desperate. As you are surely aware yourself, our home fleet was nearly annihilated in the battle here."

A storm of conflict began to rumble in the Ship Master's mind. He could understand the Judge's position, but he knew time was running out. The Arbiter was still with the humans, trapped under Truth's siege. There was an even more pressing matter: the Flood. While it was an abstract danger to the Judge and the rest of the Council, the nubs that remained of Rtas's mandibles tingled at the thought of the Parasite running rampant through the galaxy, and the only other species that seemed to understand the urgency of dealing with it were the humans.

Before he could voice his concerns, however, one of the stations began urgently chiming. For a moment, no one moved, unsure of what it was. Rtas quickly realized it was the communications station; he rose and crossed to the screen, seeing an incoming message marked with a high priority. It originated from the _Cruel Augury_, the ship he had left to observe the Flood at the black hole. The message had simply been transmitted to Sanghelios, but Qikost must have wandered across the incoming signal, making the _Shadow of Intent_ its first recipient.

He opened the message and read. A chill spread through his bones.

"We may have to leave sooner than that, Honored Judge," he said.

* * *

The Council had reconvened to hear the _Cruel Augury_'s message, Rtas and Judge 'Orgalmae returning quickly from the _Shadow of Intent_ to deliver it. The eyes of dozens of Sangheili watched the hologram of Ship Master 'Golumee as he delivered his warning:

_"I do not know who will receive this message,"_ he began, _"but I can only hope the Council is intact enough to act on this information. We have just witnessed the Flood ship, trapped beyond the event horizon of a black hole, execute a Slipspace jump in an attempt to escape. Analysis of the Slipspace area immediate to our position by probes has revealed no debris, leading to the conclusion that the jump was successful."_

The Ship Master paused, allowing the weight of what he just said to sink in before continuing. _"Just prior to this event, we received a transmission from the trapped vessel. It appeared to be a human construct that was aboard. I do not pretend to know what it was doing there, but it relayed a series of coordinates which I have encoded with this message packet. Our records show very little of this location, only that the Prophet of Regret visited it shortly before he discovered the new sacred ring._

_"I hope this message reaches you in time. The Parasite must be stopped!"_

The transmission ended there. The Judge leaned forward, troubled. He turned to the Oracle hovering dutifully by Rtas. "Oracle, is what Ship Master 'Golumee says true? Could the Flood execute a Slipspace jump in such impossible conditions?"

"The Flood is a highly intelligent organism, despite its parasitic nature," said the Oracle. "Not only can it absorb the knowledge and intuition of its host, but my creators long hypothesized that the supercell could also retain a degree of subconscious intelligence from past acquisitions as well. While your navigational systems are less advanced than those of the my creators' designs they are based on, if the Flood have retained knowledge of Slipspace travel and gravimetrics from Forerunner hosts, it would be a simple matter to reconfigure the existing systems to accomplish a high-gravity transition." He bobbed distractedly to one side. "This is indeed exciting! To imagine that after all this time, we have anecdotal confirmation of—"

"Honored Judge," interrupted Rtas, "do we know where the coordinates lead?"

'Orgalmae consulted his throne's terminal. "Earth," he said at last.

Rtas felt his stomachs drop. "Then we must make haste. If the Flood ships left recently enough, we may be able to reach the planet in time to stop the Flood from infecting it. The _Shadow of Intent_ and whatever cruisers have already been refitted should make the proper speed."

The Judge steepled his fingers, lost in thought. One of the Councilors rose. "I disagree with the Ship Master's analysis. It is just one ship that poses little danger, while we require every vessel we have at our disposal to defend our territories until we can refortify."

The Ship Master turned to the Councilor, disbelieving his naivety. "One ship will be more than enough to begin a galaxy-wide outbreak," he growled. "Earth is also the site of a highly sensitive Forerunner installation, one from which the Prophet of Truth could activate the rings and destroy all life as we know it."

"All the better," said another Councilor. "Would the Parasite not endeavor to prevent Truth from doing such a thing? By infecting this one planet, it would be denying the traitor his greatest asset—and ridding us of our obligations to the humans."

"I cannot believe this," said Rtas, turning to 'Orgalmae. "Honored Judge, please! These... these _fools_ would have you believe the Flood is little more than a trivial obstacle, but nothing could be further from reality. I have faced them in combat, and I have learned that they are no simple enemy. They are more akin to a force of nature, inexorable in its spread, unending in its hunger. To allow it to seize an entire planet simply as a convenience for us is an unthinkable cost, one that would surely mean our end in the long run."

"Containment must be followed," said the Oracle, but Rtas was unsure for the moment whose side such a statement would support.

'Orgalmae was silent, during which time Rtas felt his hearts hammering divots into his ribcage. Finally, the Judge sat back. "Council, how do you vote?"

Each touched icons on their armor, the results tallying on the Judge's throne. His eyes skimmed the results before focusing on Rtas. "Ship Master 'Vadum, the Council has decided not to follow your recommendation," he said, "and though I appreciate your concerns, I am inclined to agree with them. The Parasite may always be contained and handled later—we have seen our fleet's effectiveness in quarantine at the sacred ring. For the time being, our efforts must be focused on our own well being..."

"That is unacceptable!" Rtas clenched his hands into fists. "I will not allow bureaucracy to destroy our entire galaxy." His hand dropped to his side, pulling his energy sword free from its cradle on his hip, sapphire blades exploding into existence at his grip. "I will take what ships will follow and go to Earth."

The Councilors murmured around him, but Rtas ignored them. He turned to leave and saw Honor Guards blocking his exit. Raising his sword, he was overcome with uncertainty: would he actually spill the blood of his comrades now, in such a turbulent time?

One Honor Guard stepped forward, ready to subdue the Ship Master...

A lance of crimson energy fired over Rtas's shoulder, striking the Honor Guard in the chest and dropping his shields, knocking him down with a smoking burn across his armor but not penetrating. The Oracle hovered in front of Rtas, its once blue eye now glowing a dull orange.

"Containment _must _be followed," it said.

Now it was the Honor Guards' turn to hesitate.

Before anyone could act, the Judge's amplified voice boomed across the chamber. "Honor Guard, stand down!" Slowly they lowered their pikes. Rtas turned back to face the Council. "Ship Master, you have overstepped your bounds. The will of the Council is absolute."

"The will of the Council is wrong," Rtas replied. His sword remained ignited.

'Orgalmae stared at him. Finally, he nodded. "I will reconsider your proposal, Ship Master, but I will not allow bloodshed in these halls. Power down your weapon." Rtas did so and returned the hilt to his side. "Very good. The Council shall require time to properly deliberate. Ship Master 'Vadum, you are dismissed. Return to the _Shadow of Intent_ and await my judgment."

Relieved, Rtas bowed. He passed the Honor Guards as they helped their wounded fellow up, all shying away from the Oracle as it followed the Ship Master out of the chamber.

* * *

Once back aboard the _Shadow of Intent_, Rtas wasted no time. He doubted the Councilors would change their mind, especially given how he reacted. It had been drastic, yes, but could they not see the danger? He struggled to imagine what the Flood must sound like to those who had never encountered it face-to-face. It seemed difficult to believe that such an organism could exist, but there was enough proof in the logs recovered from the sacred rings.

No, the Council truly was deluding itself. Compared to the Flood, the Prophet of Truth was no real threat at all.

Personnel were already arriving to crew the ship, most of them having already served under Ship Master 'Vadum aboard the _Purity of Spirit_. Stepping onto the bridge, he failed to recognize anyone but understood when he heard their voices. All wore the crimson armor of Majors and all turned to regard him as he entered.

There was a moment of hesitation to all parties. What was the proper response to the Ship Master entering the bridge? Normally he was alone and need respect no formalities. Some of the crew rose to salute, the rest remained seated at their stations. No one seemed sure what was right.

After the silence was prolonged for several seconds, Rtas just waved his hand impatiently. "We may deliberate protocol at a later time. For now we have to prepare for deployment." He dropped into his command chair; it hovered a few inches off the ground.

The navigation officer perked up. "Where are we going, Excellency?"

"Earth, but not yet. Communications, do we have a secure Battle Net connection?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Send an encrypted message to the following ships," he said, typing the names and classifications of nine vessels into the arm of his chair and sending them to the communications console. "Instruct them to initiate a Slipspace jump at our signal and rendezvous at the included coordinates. Navigation, I will need you to plot our jumps now. The signal for action is _Dai-mor_, the signal to stand down is _Ihk-ha_."

Both stations became alive with activity. On the ride in the Phantom, Rtas had discreetly queried the battle records of all the ships currently in defensive orbit. He narrowed his search by restricting himself to vessels that had only Ship Commanders, without Masters for one reason or another. Then, having still faced a daunting number—so many good leaders had lost their lives in the battle—he scanned their service records and found nine commanders with strong leanings towards independent action.

Nine cruisers were plenty for the mission, yet few enough that their absence would not be missed. He was counting on the Council sticking to their policy of inaction, settled in their safety net and unwilling to budge for the crises of the universe.

One by one the commanders affirmed his orders and began subtle maneuvers that would put them on appropriate courses when the time came.

As he waited for the Council to make their decision he oversaw the ship's preparations. The plasma cores were charged and standing by, the myriad plasma batteries and lines functional but unarmed. The crew was above the operational standard, but the rosters were by no means full. Knowing the battle that likely awaited him, he used his continuing authority as Special Operations Commander and recalled a number of teams to the carrier, including Blessed Unit.

After a mere two hour delay, the communications officer relayed a message from the Council on one of the main screens. The Judge's face filled it, features set in a grim determination. "Ship Master 'Vadum," he said, "the Council has upheld its earlier decision. Defense of the human world must wait. Furthermore, for your earlier outburst you are to be censured. A Phantom shuttle is inbound to return you to Sanghelios."

Rtas nodded. It was not a surprising order, but he still felt a pang of disappointment. Censure would be a blemish on his record... but nothing compared to what he was about to do.

"Communications, send the signal to action," he said. "Navigation, prepare to jump."

"Slipspace capacitors charging. Jump in twenty seconds, Excellency."

"Excellency, the Judge is still transmitting."

'Orgalmae stared at Rtas across hundreds of thousands of kilometers, but the Ship Master returned the icy glare. "Ship Master, do not be a fool. This is mutiny."

"No, Honored Judge," replied Rtas. "This is the price that must be paid."

The Battle Net came alive, several nearby ships sending threatening messages to the _Shadow of Intent_. Rtas ignored them, focusing on the rapidly dwindling jump counter. Just as the closest vessels came in firing distance the void of Slipspace opened, absorbing the carrier in an ethereal film and instantly accelerating it faster than light. The external monitors went dark.

Shoulders sagging from relief or despair, the navigation officer turned his seat towards the Ship Master. "Jump underway, Excellency."

Rtas nodded and stood. "If there is any calamity, page me over the Ship Net."

He left the bridge and wandered the halls. Everywhere he went, crewmen stepped aside and saluted as his passing; at first he returned every one with all the vigor he could muster, but soon he allowed them to pass unrecognized.

Eventually he found his way to a small garden section. Though designed for war, the _Shadow of Intent_ still housed the proper facilities for prayer and meditation. Benches were interwoven with the small stone path but he eschewed such comforts and instead collapsed into a kneeling position in the grass. Panels above simulated the natural light of Urs, the primary star of Sanghelios. When not in a Slipspace transition, the panels would slide back and reveal the expanse of stars beyond.

Rtas tried to think of the last time he was happy and calm. One by one he retraced his steps through life, finding only pain and suffering, until he was well into the past. He recalled a perfect day from long ago, after he had returned from his trials on Jisako as a blooded warrior and earned his Military Appellation. It was a day he spent with two friends, Yarna 'Orgalmee and Oriné 'Fulsamee, as well as the latter's sister. Fulsa had been a beautiful maiden, and when he first saw her he had felt himself becoming soft and warm. For the first time in his life he wanted to discard his soldier's exterior.

But after his time on Institution he was selected to train and become one of the Prophet Blessed, an Operative. Those were torturous days, training beside fanatical idealists such as Ionill 'Ongyomee. Rtas had endured the worst, and when he was finished, he felt the change in himself. Fulsa had gone on to become a Priestess of the First Circle, and though he maintained frequent communiqués with her, he knew she was not interested in one so rough as he.

Then she had been accused of heresy and executed. It was a mortal blow to his heart, but perhaps more troubling was the effect it had on her brother. Oriné had all of the lively, curious Sangheili in him burned away under the anguish of losing his twin sister; when the smoke cleared as his personal flame guttered out, all that was left was a Covenant Elite, blindly loyal and subservient. Any ambition that he had claimed before was gone.

The universe destroyed him.

It was stories like that, Rtas realized, that should have been a warning sign that all was not right with the Covenant. The 'Fulsam Lineage had been nothing but devoted to walking the Path, seeking the Great Journey, but the Ship Master had seen how that faith was rewarded. So many Sangheili—indeed, Unggoy and Kig-Yar, even—were consumed. His old sub-Commander, 'Kusovai, had once been a proud and strong warrior, a promising apprentice.

Rtas still saw the twisted, shambling form of what he had become when the Flood took him, a victim of the Prophets' cowardice and greed. Every night the Ship Master relived the horror of seeing it, felt the tainted blade pass through his mandibles and disfigure him for life.

Once that would have crushed him, but now it mattered not.

He became aware of an insistent chiming and realized he had been sitting there for nearly an hour, dwelling and unconsciously grinding the sod below his hands into a pulp. He stood, brushed off his claws, and keyed the Ship Net from his helmet.

"Excellency, we have arrived. The other ships have joined us, nine in all."

"Very good. Begin a live holographic transmission. I will make the conference in the war room." He started to leave, but remembered: "Where is the Oracle?"

"I can find it, Excellency."

"Do it, and direct it to the war room. I have need of it."

Several minutes later Rtas found himself standing before a small council of nine spirits, the ghostly impressions of the Ship Commanders spread out in a defensive formation. The Oracle hovered nearby, idly hovering about the room.

"So why have we abandoned our posts, Ship Master?" asked the commander of the _Faith Above_. "Your message hinted at a battle needing to be fought."

"Indeed, Commander. Tell me, have you faced the Parasite in combat?"

Several of the shapes shifted uncomfortably. Most had been present at High Charity when the infection began alongside the civil war. Many had returned to Sanghelios from the Quarantine Fleet when they received the distress call; some had jumped much sooner, trying to escape the horror.

The commander shook his head. "I have not, but I hear it is a vile opponent."

"The Flood is our target. As we speak, an infected ship is en-route to the human home world. When it reaches the planet, it will infect the entire biosphere and turn all organic life into its slaves. Not only must we uphold our blood debt to the humans, but the Arbiter himself is on the surface with a small team of warriors to negotiate an official agreement and lend aid directly. Attempts to raise the vessel he left in have been unsuccessful, so we must assume that any warning would fall on deaf ears."

Another commander, one hailing from the _Sanctuary Superior_, crossed his arms and stepped forward. "I am not much keen on helping the humans, wrongful as our war against them was. A blood debt is a steep price."

"Our destruction of their people has been methodical and complete," replied yet another commander. Rtas wasn't sure which ship he belonged to. "Compared to our own losses, theirs are beyond easy comprehension. A blood debt is the least gesture we can make—and given our own foolish adherence to the Covenant, the debt would last a century or more."

"Enough." Rtas was in no mood to hear this discussion repeat. "This is our mission. Any ship choosing to abandon it may do so, but the reception waiting back home is likely to be hostile unless we can prove this is the right choice for our people."

None of the commanders moved.

Rtas nodded. "Now, the Flood ship has a great deal of distance on us, but I believe we may have a hope of catching up to it or even overtaking it." He looked up. "Oracle."

"Yes?" The construct bobbed over, coming into view of the holograms. The commanders had mixed reactions, some growling and others praying.

Rtas ignored them. "Oracle, earlier you spoke of the Flood's ability to modify our engines."

"Correct. With their adaptive memory, some data must have survived in a fossilized form that could only be accessed by..."

"Yes, I understand. Could those same adjustments be made to our own Slipspace drives so that we may reach the Parasite and"—he searched for the proper words—"keep containment?"

"Of course. I detect an ample supply of Class One builders. It will take them very little time to make the proper adjustments." The Oracle stopped moving, its eye flickering. "Instructions relayed. I have taken the liberty of rewriting the jump protocols to reflect the change."

"Thank you, Oracle." Rtas turned to the assembled commanders. "Track our adjustments and make the same modifications. I will have our navigation officer provide you all with updated jump protocols. We will save the humans and bring Truth to his knees below the pressure of our righteous fury."

The commanders saluted and disappeared.

* * *

Modification of the Slipspace drives took very little time. Rtas was surprised at how easily the Oracle was able to control the Huragok aboard not only his ship but the others as well. Try as he might, he could not understand how it was possible, but he tried not to dwell on it too much. There was a great deal of preparation to do.

The Ship Commanders had come to call their small group of vessels the Fleet of Retribution. Rtas found the name fitting and made it official. He discovered that several of the cruisers housed infantry units; one by one he summoned their commanders and discussed deployment possibilities with them, but normal infantry would be ill-equipped to deal with the Flood.

For that, he brought forth all the Special Operations units that had answered his recall. A small crowd of Sangheili met him in his war room, where they relayed the readiness of their teams. All in all, each had suffered moderate to severe casualties but were willing to fight on. Rtas considered their passion a blessing: before his mutinous departure, he had read reports that most Prophet Blessed had remained loyal to the Covenant in the schism. In fact, it was said that a Special Operations group had masterminded the glassing of Providence, a pleasure world considered to be a religious and cultural center of the Sangheili.

When the alterations to the Slipspace drives were complete, the Fleet of Retribution jumped. In transit, Rtas took the time to rest, retiring to his quarters.

He was awoken several hours later by the Ship Net. "Excellency, you are needed on the bridge."

The Oracle waited for him, as well as the bridge crew, still alert at their stations. Had they remained there the entire time, or had they rotated shifts in between? "Status."

"We are preparing to exit Slipspace, Excellency. Our plotted course puts us just beyond the lunar perimeter to allow us some room for observation and evasion, if necessary. At the moment, I detect no anomalies."

"Where is the Flood ship?"

"Unknown. We were nearly on top of it when it dropped out of the alternate space."

Rtas nodded and assumed his seat. They had done all they could.

The Slipspace field peeled back, revealing the blue and brown globe with its soft white clouds and nearby moon. In moments the image was overlaid with tactical readings. One area glowed dangerously.

The tactical officer jumped. "Detecting massive energy spike!"

"Where is it in relation to Truth's fleet?"

"They are surrounding it, Excellency... no, Truth's ship has entered the anomaly. Other ships are following, but I detect that a great deal of enemy vessels remain in orbit."

Rtas surveyed the readings. It was like nothing ever before recorded by the Sangheili. The _Shadow_'s systems reported it as a Slipspace rupture of immense power, so much so that it had surpassed the threshold of perpetuity and became self-sustaining. That was impossible, though; if he got the chance, he would have his Inquisitors study it.

"Ship Master!" It was navigation this time. "I am detecting a Slipspace rupture in the atmosphere, near the energy reading."

Rtas went cold. "The Flood ship?"

The navigation officer hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes, Excellency."

"What is it doing?"

"Hold... it has crashed into the surface, in the middle of what appears to be a human settlement."

Rtas stood up, his hands clenched into fists. "I need a visual!"

"Transmitting." The image appeared on the forward view screens, projected across both as if in terrifying stereo. At the moment it appeared that nothing was happening, but soon he saw a writing wave of _things_ evacuating the crash zone. Further enhancement revealed what they were: fleshy creatures, some small pods and some lumbering bipeds. Tentacles lashed the air. Though there was nothing to capture the sound, Rtas could imagine the ungodly howl like it was etched into his very soul.

The bridge was quiet.

"Excellency," said the communications officer after a pause, "the Ship Commanders are asking for orders."

The Ship Master felt his legs become weak. He collapsed into his chair. "We failed." His voice came out as just a whisper, but in the silence of the bridge he knew his officers heard him. "There is but one course of action available to us."

He looked up at the Oracle, but it too made no noise except for the high pitch of its hovering. He wanted to ask what else he could do, but there was only one answer.

"Glass the planet."


	12. The Demon's Gamble

Chapter 12: The Demon's Gamble

Maka 'Fulsamee struggled with his stolen Chopper. He was near the city of Voi, where the battle was shaping up: he could hear the thunder of cannons and the distant patter of small arms, see the flash of explosions. Covenant cruisers hung in the air, slowly circling the dig site where the Prophet of Truth's ship had landed.

The Chopper vehicle had taken serious damage on his ride in as he dueled Brute patrols populated by Ghosts and their own Choppers—being a Jiralhanae craft, they were familiar with the controls where Maka, as a Sangheili, was not.

He had decimated all opposition so far, but his vehicle was falling apart.

The camera caught sight of movement, right at the city limits. He squinted, trying to make out the details, but he was too far away. It looked large and angular, wedge-shaped almost...

Wonder turned to certainty as the thing belched a glowing plasma bomb that sailed through the air, a mortar that was angled right for him. Maka swerved out of the way, feeling the ground shake as the round landed, felt the heat ripple over his armor, easily passing through his shields. He gunned the Chopper's boost, hearing the vehicle groan in protest.

The Wraith tank fired again and again, each time its shots barely missing their target as he zigged and zagged his way through. With increasing frequency the Chopper pinged and popped.

Then it happened.

The Chopper suddenly lurched and began making an unusual chugging noise. Maka frantically searched for the problem, but the onboard monitors were telling him nothing. The tank was straight ahead, close enough for Maka to see the gunner on the front, sighting on the Sangheili.

Desperation seized Maka's mind. He slammed the boost into full power, locked it and the steering in place, and dove off. He hit the rough human pavement hard, tumbling end over end; his shields absorbed the primary impact but he still felt his left shoulder wrench hard in its socket. He skidded to a halt in time to look up and see the result of his handiwork.

His aim had been true. The Chopper, taking intense fire from the plasma turret, continued forward. Though armed with forward-mounted cannons, the rounds were too light-caliber to penetrate the heavy armor plate on the front of the Wraith; however, with the rest of the vehicle behind it, the spinning, razor-sharp forward wheel had no such difficulties. It plunged through, bisecting the gunner's chair and the cockpit before breaching the tank's plasma core.

In an instant, the Wraith turned from an assault gun carriage to a pillar of fire and smoke.

Maka felt heavy and tired. He was tempted to stay on the ground. It was comfortable enough, and he just wanted to sleep.

But he remembered what he had seen: Oriné 'Fulsamee, Maka's brother, executing fellow Sangheili for disloyalty. He was still under the thrall of Truth. The Arbiter had to be told.

That armor column had been all that guarded this gate into the city proper. Maka limped his way through and surveyed the area. The whole area had been ruined: apparently the Jiralhanae had been using these buildings as target practice. The few structures that remained standing had become misshapen from the heat of the plasma mortars.

He saw bits of human bodies sticking up from the wreckage and turned away.

On his way towards the fighting, he continued to scan the Covenant Battle Net for information. The Arbiter was indeed in this city, as was a sizable human force and even the Demon. They had just managed to destroy a Scarab near the lip of the crater, likely bound for one of the anti-air batteries after demolishing several Wraiths along the way.

Maka realized his burgeoning respect of the humans was well placed. They were accomplishing much, despite staring extinction in the face.

He continued to limp and crawl his way through the wreckage. Few patrols were out here, most too concerned with the Arbiter's forces to remain on perimeter duty, and those that persisted were easily avoided. Twice he found himself caught in the open as Banshees roared overhead, but if they saw him they gave no sign.

Close now, he realized. Did he dare open communications?

His information was important. It could not wait.

Maka opened up a Battle Net channel and encrypted it for the Arbiter's ears, but just as he began to transmit there was a thunderous explosion. Multiple human vessels passed overhead, dozens of their Longsword interceptors and a trio of frigates. The air itself shook violently as they fired MAC rounds ahead at Truth's ship. For a moment, there was nothing, and then a strong tremor shook the ground. Was that the explosion? Had Truth's ship been destroyed?

The sky turned white, blinding Maka for a moment. He lost his footing and crashed down a pile of rubble, shields absorbing some of the impact but many of the low-velocity objects simply passing through and cutting into his combat harness. He forced himself not to cry out in pain.

When his vision cleared, Maka looked up and found himself staring into a terrible black void.

* * *

Oriné 'Fulsamee walked into the Dreadnought's command center. Rurut was instantly at his side, but he waved the Unggoy into silence. There was one figure he expected to see that was curiously absent.

He knelt before the Prophet of Truth. "I have eliminated the traitors, Your Holiness."

"Quite a feat, Commander," said the Prophet. "You are to be commended."

"Excellency, where is Bracktanus?"

"I have dispatched him to the carrier _Eternal Vigil in Paradise_. We are nearly ready to open the portal, but I must leave him behind to watch over the fleet. Only thirty ships shall follow us, no more. I do not wish to risk the ire of the Gods." He drummed his fingers on the throne. "You will accompany me, Commander. I will have need of you on the other side."

"As you command." Truth dismissed him.

Oriné began to exit when Rurut said, "I have detected an anomaly."

"What is it?"

"A single cruiser has exited Slipspace far beyond our fleet's picket, but it is not responding to hails. Long-range scanners also cannot confirm the presence of life signs. It seems as if it is just... waiting."

That gave the Sangheili Commander pause, but as he considered it a shrill alarm began to sound. He moved quickly to a nearby console. "Your Holiness," he called out, "the humans have breached our anti-air defenses and a large attack force is incoming."

"No matter." Truth pressed a series of buttons on his throne. "Engage this holy key, my brothers, and open the path to the Great Journey!"

Something began to happen. The air became electric, making Oriné tingle all over even as he tracked the human strike force. Their small fighters were closing in fast, but three frigates did not lag far behind.

Far below, the installation they rested on rumbled. Power surged up through the ship.

The Longswords let loose their volley. Though their missiles were too small to do any lasting damage to the ship, it added to the growing tremors. Then the frigates fired their MAC guns, slugs impacting the side of the Dreadnought. _That _did not go unnoticed, as Oriné and the Jiralhanae in the command center gripped their consoles to keep from losing their footing. Many of the Unggoy became unbalanced and toppled over; Rurut held his ground.

The intensity in the air rose to a fevered level. Oriné continued to grip the console, even though the shaking had stopped. Everything grew brighter: the lights, the terminals, the air itself until his eyes were watering.

Suddenly, darkness. There was no light or sound.

_Is this it?_ Oriné wondered. _Have we begun?_

Slowly, the Dreadnought came back to life. A flicker passed through the lighting strips, then the terminals warmed, but even as the light returned it seemed dimmer.

"Holy One," reported one Jiralhanae, "the Dreadnought has fifteen percent power remaining. It is barely enough for the engines to function."

The Prophet, whose throne remained hovering in exactly the same position, merely raised his hands. "The portal is open! All ships, rise and pass through to glory!"

Oriné followed his gaze and saw the inky sphere hovering in the sky, projected in true color within the command center. He could see the human ships faltering in the air, struggling to recover from what must have been a terrible shockwave, but he did not care.

Here, at last, the Great Journey was beginning.

The console chimed beneath his numb fingers, but its alert when unheeded. The Dreadnought rose into the portal, followed by Truth's thirty ships.

* * *

N'tho 'Sraom blinked several times to clear the spots from his vision. He wavered lightly on his feet but felt the firm hand of Major 'Taham at his back, steadying him. "Very bright, Excellency. Can you see?"

'Taham grunted. "My helmet polarized its lenses automatically. I see everything."

Making a mental note to look into a closed helmet like that, N'tho took stock. He and the Major were standing several paces behind the Arbiter and the Demon. As Truth's Dreadnought and the accompanying ships entered the strange... _thing _that had appeared, the Arbiter let loose an angry cry. They had come so close to finding justice for their people and the wrongful war they had waged in the Prophet's name, but now it had again moved beyond them.

N'tho's radio crackled suddenly. _"This is - ...am, broadca... - can hear."_

The voice was familiar. "Maka! 'Fulsam, is that you?"

There was a pause. _"N'tho, I am relieved to hear your voice."_

"And I yours, my friend. We had believed you killed in the jungles."

_"A fate I gladly avoided. Where is the Arbiter? I must speak with him."_

N'tho was about to respond when a loud crash cut him off, interference from a sudden radiation flare interrupting his connection. He looked up to see a ship exiting Slipspace mere kilometers away.

It was a Covenant cruiser, no doubt, but it had been heavily damaged. The exterior was burned, and judging by the way it trailed thick clouds of smoke, it could barely maintain its altitude. The ship banked hard on an approach vector.

As it neared, N'tho realized something wasn't right. Many of the damage wasn't due to burns, but because of some odd growth on the surface. And that wasn't smoke...

_Spores_. Dread settled into his stomachs.

The ship passed overhead, whipping the winds into a frenzy, before it crashed into the city behind them. The ground shook just as hard as moments ago, when Truth activated the Ark.

"What is it," growled the Arbiter. "More Brutes?"

The Demon gave a small shake of its head. "Worse."

N'tho tried his radio again. "Maka, can you hear me? Whatever you do, you must avoid that ship. Flee!"

All he received in return was static, as horrendous and familiar screams rose in the distance.

The Flood was on Earth.

* * *

Maka coughed and forced himself up, debris sliding off him. His shield monitor howled at him. The battery was not only depleted, but damaged as well. If he was not careful, it would overload and could cause him even more harm. With some trepidation, he ejected the unit and examined it: a crack ran down the side from which a small amount of plasma was venting. He could blame it on the sudden trauma of the crashing ship, but he knew he had failed to complete armor maintenance ever since High Charity. The damage was likely due to fatigue and his carelessness as it was external factors.

He tossed the battery aside and looked around through the dust-choked air. He had seen the ship in time to take cover, and for his effort had avoided the worst. He judged the cruiser to have come down over a kilometer away, but still buildings had shook and some toppled.

When he tried to raise N'tho or the Arbiter, all he heard was static. The Battle Net was dead. Still, he had gotten an approximate fix on their position in the brief moment when they spoke; they were on the far side of the city. He would have to find his way across, but with Truth's ships having departed and what few forces remained in the city likely killed by that cruiser, it would be an easy walk provided he avoided the crash site.

He began to move, picking his way around ruins. The outskirts of the city had been orderly, with streets and avenues laid out in roughly a grid formation. This deep, however, navigation became more complicated. Some streets cut diagonally across others or ended abruptly. Maka considered it likely that this part of Voi was old, maybe from a time when the humans living here had not worried about vehicles.

It was quaint, he decided, that humans would hang on to that history rather than rebuild. Most of the capital on Sanghelios had been redesigned as the centuries passed, though he did recall some core areas that went unchanged.

Was acknowledging the past a strength or a weakness?

A foul odor drifted across him, forcing him to stop and gag. It was something putrid and rotten, yet somehow familiar. He glanced around, struggling to place it. Closing his eyes, it hit him again, and with a jolt he realized where before had smelled that stench.

A distorted howl sounded in the distance.

_The Flood_.

Maka instantly went for his sidearm but found himself grasping at air. His plasma pistol was gone. _Fool_, he thought. It must have torn loose when he dove out of the Chopper. It would have been quite an effective weapon, though what he truly needed was something that burned.

A human Battle Rifle weighed on his back, and Maka retrieved it from its magnetic cradle. It was not a favorable choice, as he understood. While human bullet technology had strengths in some areas, this weapon fired in quick bursts; it was ineffective against a wave of Infection Forms.

Still, it was better than nothing, and he had recovered a handful of magazines for it. If he ran into Infection Forms, he could always just let them pop on his...

His eyes widened.

_Shields_.

Something skittered across the ground behind him. Maka did not bother to look. He simply charged ahead, shouldering his way through a door and into a building without slowing his pace. His wounds wept and his exhausted muscles cried for mercy, but he ignored them. The horror that awaited him if he relented for even a second was too much to think about.

He moved from building to building, sweeping as he went but not lingering too long. The air was becoming thicker with smoke and the Flood's smell. Shapes moved in the darkening atmosphere, but Maka held his fire. If they were somehow unaware of him now, he should endeavor to maintain that stealth for as long as possible.

When the opportunity next presented itself he ascended to the walkways above the streets. They would hopefully narrow the Flood's avenues of approach and get him out of the haze. However, after only a few dozen meters, he had to abandon that plan, as the walkways abruptly ended where a building had toppled through them.

Maka dropped to the ground. Something squelched under his boots.

A shriek split the air.

He turned and saw the lumbering, tentacled Combat Forms rushing at him. They were a mixture of human and Jiralhanae types, accompanied by no less than a dozen Infection Forms around their feet. Maka started to run backwards, firing as he went. He aimed for the chest, where the Infection Forms burrowed when they took control of the host, but for every one he felled another would simply climb in and resume the chase.

Without his shields, he couldn't hope to stand his ground.

The rifle ran dry. He turned and plowed forward with all the speed he could muster, leaping over obstacles while he tried to fumble a new magazine into the weapon. He tripped and fell, stumbling down a shallow incline, scraping his arm bloody on the pavement. For a moment he lay there, dazed.

A shadow moved overhead.

* * *

Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum brought his small fleet down over the infected city: it made sense to begin with the heart of the disease and burn outwards. His resolve flickered when he caught sight of the massive Slipspace portal that hovered over the area. It had been the source of the high-energy reading his crew had detected upon first arriving, and its presence gave him pause. Had the Arbiter failed? Did his body lie somewhere below, consumed by the Parasite?

"Detecting multiple life signs below," reported the tactical station.

Rtas looked over at him. "Sangheili?"

"Yes, a few, as well as many humans. They show no sign of infection, Excellency."

His heart warmed a little. Perhaps all was not lost.

"Prepare our Special Operations units for deployment. They are to bolster the humans' defenses and help evacuate the area. While the Parasite is still somewhat contained, I want strike teams moving towards the downed ship. Perhaps we can recover that construct that sent the warning." He felt like his old self again, ordering Special Operations around the battlefield. It almost made him forget his current responsibilities. "Inform the Ship Commanders to keep their distance and assume glassing positions, just in case."

The tactical readout bleeped an alert: several human ships were lingering nearby. _It would be wise to announce ourselves_, Rtas thought, _before we are mistaken for the enemy_. "Establish a Battle Net and give me an open broadcast."

A moment later the communications were established. Rtas stood and opened a channel. "Hail, humans, and take heed," he said. "This is the carrier _Shadow of Intent_. Clear this sector while we deal with the Flood."

"Special Operations units deployed, Excellency," interrupted tactical.

Communications chimed in next. "We are receiving a communication from the human ships."

"On the screen." Rtas remained standing. The image of an elder human in a white uniform and cap appeared. His watery eyes squinted at the Ship Master.

"This is Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood of the United Nations Space Command," the human said. "With whom am I speaking?"

"I am Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum. We are here to do what we can, Admiral, though this situation seems dire."

The admiral somehow managed to frown deeper. "I was hoping for more than ten ships, and I was counting on them arriving a great deal sooner. You should be aware of the agreements your Arbiter has made in your absence."

Was this human attempting to discuss _politics _in the middle of a battle? Rtas flexed his shoulder to demonstrate his impatience. "I should think there are needs more pressing at this time. Evacuate your people, Admiral, and my ships can—"

"Commander Keyes already has a plan." Hood cut him off with a wave of his hand. "If we overload the engine core on the crashed ship, we will annihilate all the Flood in this area."

Rtas nodded. "A sound plan, but I already have warriors in the city. We are searching for something amidst the wreckage, a construct that sent us a warning before the ship you see before you jumped away from our control. I believe it may be very valuable to you."

That made the admiral quiet. He seemed to be thinking about something very hard.

At last, he said, "Hold on a minute, Ship Master. I'm sure there's somebody else who'd like to be privy to this conversation."

A moment later, two more faces appeared on the screen, ones that he had seen before.

Rtas gave a small bow. "Commander."

Keyes nodded in return. "Ship Master." Beside her was the dark-skinned sergeant. He had made quite an impression on the Sangheili warriors who had fought beside him. What was his name—Jonz'zon? "What's this Lord Hood tells me about a construct?"

"I believe she is known to you. Our first hint to her presence was reported when one of my Special Operations units reported seeing her on board High Charity, shortly after it was infested. Then, when this ship jumped away, the Oracle—" He paused and looked behind him, beckoning the Oracle to approach. It eagerly moved up; Rtas caught a look of annoyance on the sergeant's face. "The Oracle detected a signal on board identical to that of his ring's Sacred Icon. After we trapped the ship, your construct sent us a warning leading us here just prior to its escape."

Keyes's eyes widened, but it was the sergeant who spoke. "You mean _Cortana?_ She's aboard that ship?"

"Yes," said the Oracle. "Well, perhaps. I am still detecting the Index beacon on board. We cannot allow the Flood to gain control of it."

Though it was hard to tell at first, Rtas realized Keyes had shifted her attention to the admiral. "Sir, if we could recover Cortana, we might gain a significant asset. She's been surrounded by the Flood for weeks now. She might have new intel or an insight into stopping Truth. We _need _to go after her."

Hood did not appear convinced, but he nodded. "Very well. We have much to discuss, but in the meantime, Ship Master, I would recommend you think of a better way to present yourself."

Rtas cocked his head. "Pardon?"

Keyes cleared her throat. "I think the admiral means that your ships cut a very fierce silhouette. We should take steps to visually identify any of your craft as separate from the enemy."

"What do you have in mind?"

* * *

The _Shadow of Intent _swooped in low over the city, disgorging the orbital insertion pods containing the Special Operations units. Blessed Unit was among the first to drop, landing near the edge of the massive crater. As Balask 'Zakam leapt out, plasma rifles at the ready, he spared a moment to look over the installation that had been hidden below the surface of the planet.

There were no words in his mind, only fury.

The Flood spread fast, but he and Kasa 'Yonom were ready. The Unggoy had remained behind on the ship, deemed too vulnerable to infection to be deployed. Instead, the pair had come in the company of three Sangheili of Devout Unit. All were dressed in sealed assault harnesses.

Plasma flashed from their weapons, slicing into the Parasite as it foolishly charged. They held their ground, Balask barely noticing when the Arbiter and his own team joined the fray. He only paused—momentarily—when he saw the Demon fighting beside them.

_Strange times_, he thought.

When the Flood had been pushed back, he approached the Arbiter. The ornamented Sangheili reached out and gripped Balask's shoulder. "My brothers, I fear you bring bad news."

"High Charity has fallen, become a dreaded hive," Balask said.

"And the fleet? Has quarantine been broken?"

"A single ship broke through our line, but we gave chase." He nodded towards the crash site.

The Arbiter bowed his head. "But we had a fleet of hundreds!"

"Alas, brother. The Flood... it has evolved."

As a group they moved out, jogging up a ramp towards another gathering of Flood. Balask wondered how much the Arbiter already knew. He had been out of touch for quite a while now. Would he want to know about the attack against Sanghelios?

Not now, he decided at length, as he drew his energy sword and cleaved a Combat Form in two. The worse of the news could wait.

"What is your objective?" called out the Ranger Major with the Arbiter.

Kasa answered. "The crash site. There is something we must recover, if it can be found."

Their group had pressed into a large corridor, big enough for vehicles to pass through. Here the Demon took the lead, allowing Balask the chance to marvel at its combat prowess. It moved like a liquid but struck with the power of a meteor. He remembered facing such an opponent on the battlefield long ago, hungry for glory and certain that he would make the Demon his trophy. He awoke hours later, near death. The Demon had beaten him effortlessly, moving on after believing Balask to be dead.

That had been the death of his thirst for recognition, and the true beginning of his Special Operations career.

In that hall, they lost two of the Sangheili from Devout Unit. One had the sense to arm a plasma grenade as his last act, taking his attacker with him to oblivion, but the other had become infected rapidly, transforming almost before their eyes. Even Balask hesitated when confronted with the sight.

The Demon did not. It snatched up the fallen warrior's blade and carved the creature into pieces. Rage was Balask's first response: how dare it use an honored sword. It had no right. But any objection he may have voiced died in his throat as the Demon proceeded to cut a path through their innumerable attackers to freedom. By the end, it was spent and the Demon tossed it aside. Balask crooked a finger, and Kasa retrieved the dead hilt. It could be returned; the warrior's mate could find closure.

The hall was done. As the strike team left, the crashed ship loomed in front of them, burning bright in the night. Neatly silhouetted was an army of Flood, as if they were waiting for the group, ready for blood.

"Hurry, Demon," said Balask. "We seek the same prize, but our Ship Master will sacrifice all to stop the Flood."

The Demon only nodded before plunging into the enemy.

* * *

The rifle clicked empty. Maka roared and swung the weapon's stock, butting the Combat Form's tentacles out of the way and jamming his elbow into its chest. The bulbous abomination within burst under the pressure, the body falling to the ground. He snatched up its plasma rifle and fired into the wave of Infection Forms encroaching on his position.

Over the last several minutes he had been fighting for his life, picking up weapons as he depleted them. At Institution he had been trained about human rifles, as well as drilled not to ever wield one on the battlefield. It was more honorable to fight hand-to-hand than use the vile heretics' tools. Worse were the Jiralhanae weapons: Spikers, Maulers, Brute Shots. They were considered specialized, only to be used by the Brutes. Their operation wasn't part of the curriculum.

Their function was remarkably similar to that of the humans' weapons, however, and despite their primitive nature they were extremely effective against the Flood: Jiralhanae favored weapons that functioned in ranged and melee modes, each firearm covered in serrated blades that carved through rotten, infected flesh.

But his cache—and his strength—were dwindling.

He could not remain here. It was a series of small rooms on the fourth floor of some building, with thin walls and claustrophobic hallways. It was indefensible.

Running back while firing, he flipped tables and chairs for all the time it would buy him. The Flood would simply flow over it like some kind of putrid water with a mind of its own, but it would give him the precious seconds he needed.

A window looked over a narrow alley; directly across it was the roof of another building.

Maka swung his plasma rifle around and fired, blowing out the glass. Mustering what strength he could, he made a flying leap, barely clearing the empty space and sliding onto the roofing tile. He picked himself up and ran, not bothering to turn and look to see if the Flood was following. It was, without a doubt.

More screams arose, but not all from the Parasite. He picked out the frightened cries of humans, though he could not determine sex or age. He had to push it out of his mind. It reminded him too much of High Charity, when the Jiralhanae had begun the bloodshed.

The air was full of smoke and fire. The crash site must be close.

He ran out of roof, quickly changing direction and running towards another tall structure. Three shots from his plasma rifle exploded the window directly across from him, but it was no small alley separating him from escape this time. A street ran below. As Maka jumped, he suddenly realized he wouldn't make it to the window.

The ground approached perilously fast, but his momentum carried him forward. He crashed through a boarded-up window two floors down from his intended landing, tumbling before a wall violently stopped his roll.

_Damn windows._ He was sick to death of them.

He was groggy, but the room smelled of death, not infection. He looked around.

Four humans sat up against the wall, unmoving, dark stains behind their heads on the wall. One was an adult female, the rest smaller—children. A fifth, adult male, was sprawled on the floor, pistol in his hand. All were dressed in what Maka had come to understand were high-quality clothes.

He pushed himself up and pried the pistol loose from the dead man's grip. It had been a twelve-round magazine, of which seven remained. His plasma rifle's charge was at two percent, too low. Even if it fired, the shots would be underpowered and inaccurate.

The pistol felt small in his hands, but it would do.

Inhuman shrieks arose outside. There was no more time to waste here. When the door would not open on its own, he cracked it in two with a hard kick and found himself staring at something bizarre.

It was Flood, he did not doubt, but like nothing he had ever seen. It was lank, standing on four stumpy legs and two long, thin appendages reaching up into the air. They twitched, giving Maka just enough warning to leap out of the way in time. This thing was fast and fierce, forcing the young Sangheili to dive and roll around to avoid it.

He fired two rounds into it, but the creature did not flinch. When it closed to attack with its strange arms he lashed out with a savage kick to whatever amounted for a face. It reeled under the blow; Maka continued the assault, driving it back.

_I have the upper hand_, he thought. _I will not be killed here, by this thing!_

Then it changed.

It began to shake and convulse, so at first Maka thought he might have killed it. But rather than fall it began to bulge. Something inside it began to crack and shift. It grew, its four legs merging into two, its arms swelling and growing tentacles.

Maka's mandibles slackened. When it finished transforming, it towered over him.

"What is this?" he whispered.

The thing roared and lashed out, smashing Maka in the side of the head. The world spun as he was tossed back a meter, landing on his back. The vision in his left eye was blurred and when he tried to move his mandibles something made a grinding noise in his skull.

The floor rumbled as the titan approached. Maka fired the pistol from the floor, trying to hit the mass of tentacles and ganglia that gave away the location of the Infection Form. None of the shots connected, instead being soaked up by its thick skin. Some green slime oozed from the wounds.

Tentacles wrapped around Maka's neck and hauled him up. He couldn't breathe. Blackness closed in around his eyes.

With a swift motion, the titan tossed him out a window.

* * *

Something crashed above them.

Blessed Unit immediately focused their weapons up. Kasa 'Yonom was just able to make out a dark shape plummeting down before it struck him, knocking him down and driving the air from his lung. He coughed saliva onto the inside of his helmet.

With effort, he rolled over, pushing the thing off of him before he realized that it was moving. Panic stabbed through his mind. _The Parasite?_ Since rendezvousing with the Arbiter and the Demon, Blessed and Devout Units had been assaulted from all sides by the Flood as they fought their way to the crashed cruiser, particularly some insidious new form that could change shape.

But this was no Combat Form. It was a Sangheili.

More than that, he was familiar.

Kasa looked at his face. "Maka 'Fulsamee?"

Balask 'Zakam was beside him in just a moment. His human shotgun was trained on the unconscious warrior. "You know this one?"

"Yes," Kasa said, standing. "From long ago. We went to seminary together and played often. Commander 'Fulsamee went to Jisako with my older brother, but... he did not survive."

"Oriné," mumbled Maka. "He is... alive."

'Zakam dropped to one knee. "What was that?"

Something pounded up the ruined street. Instantly the Operatives turned, weapons at the ready, only to see the two infantry members that the Arbiter kept with him. He and the Demon had gone ahead to the crashed ship, instructing the Operatives to guard their exit. If the human construct was within, they would find it.

"We heard a commotion," said the Major.

The Minor pushed past him and fell to a knee beside the delirious Sangheili. "What happened to him?"

"Never mind that," snapped 'Zakam. "What was that about Commander 'Fulsamee?"

Something howled above them.

"Excellency," said Kasa. "We must secure him and call for a Phantom, get him back to Nunot and the medical facilities on _Shadow of Intent_."

'Zakam was clearly not pleased, but he nodded and rose. "Major 'Taham, call for extraction and bring the Arbiter to our location. We will stay on station and await the Demon from the air. The ground is no longer secure."

It took only minutes for the dropship to arrive, during which time the Sangheili set up a defensive circle around the fallen Maka while Kasa attended to his wounds. He did not have the luxury of ruminating on their childhood spent together, how much sooner he left than Maka, the one he had considered as close as a brother—especially after the death of both his older brothers.

The welcome thrum of the approaching Phantom let him relax his guard slightly, but when he looked up he had to squint. "Is it... green?"

"Seems so," said Major 'Taham. The dropship hovered overhead and activated its gravity lift. The Major stepped in first, followed by Kasa and the Minor carrying Maka, and finally 'Zakam. As they laid out and secured their wounded comrade, Kasa was surprised to see the Phantom had another passenger.

"Oracle?"

The peculiar construct bobbed and dipped around the compartment, humming to itself. It seemed oblivious to the Sangheili presence.

The Phantom lurched as it changed positions. Momentarily the Arbiter floated up.

"What happened?" he asked.

'Zakam appraised him of the situation, all the while the Sangheili hero watched the Oracle float about. "This one fell on us from above, quite literally. He is heavily wounded, but he claims that Commander Oriné 'Fulsamee is still alive."

The Arbiter's attention snapped to the Operative. "What? How is that possible?"

"I cannot say."

"Holy Oracle," the pilot called out from the cockpit, "we are above the crash site."

"Excellent," said the Oracle. "The Reclaimer is below, as is the index beacon. One moment." The gravity lift opened and it descended—_against _the flow of gravity.

The Arbiter crossed to Maka, standing over Kasa's shoulder. "What is his condition?"

"Unconscious, but he is out of serious danger." Kasa eased off his helmet. The smell of exertion and rotted flesh wafted up to him from Maka, but he was not concerned. He had already checked for signs of infection by the Flood, and there were none. "I do not know when he will wake again. He must see the Healers."

An armored hand fell upon his shoulder. "Rest, warrior," the Arbiter said quietly. "I will watch over him."

The Arbiter settled onto his knees. Kasa hesitated before rising and crossing over to 'Zakam, still standing with his arms crossed and looking dour, even through the helmet. "If Commander 'Fulsamee indeed survived, he must have witnessed terrible things," he said. "He may have seen the Prophet's treachery first hand."

"But where is he, then? Where could he hide, and why has he not tried to make contact?"

The gravity lift opened, admitting the Oracle carrying some unknown device and the Demon. His golden visor swept over the assembled Sangheili.

All conversation died.

* * *

"Ship Master," said tactical, "all forces recovered from infection zone, including humans."

Rtas nodded. "Excellent. Bring the ship to a higher altitude and direct the Ship Commanders to begin glassing the area. When the Arbiter arrives, tell him I wish to meet him in my quarters."

The tactical station affirmed and began to work. The communications officer swiveled in his chair to face the Ship Master. "A dropship has been dispatched from the human battlegroup, Excellency. They claim to have the admiral and that female commander aboard and wish to discuss the human construct recovered from the crash site."

"Her name is Keyes," corrected Rtas. "Very well. Admit them into the hangar bay and direct them to the bridge. I will meet with them after I have spoken to the Arbiter. Oh, and assign them a security detail from our Operatives."

He rose and stretched. Commanding from a chair had seemed strange at first, but it quickly became comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable, he mused as he popped his joints, or else he was getting too old.

The Ship Master's quarters were close to the bridge, as they should be. Traditionally they had a myriad of attractions and functions: private gardens, lavish baths, a full suite of hologram emitters for tactical and personal reasons. It only supported what Rtas had long suspected, that aging Ship Masters lost their edge for combat in preparation for spending their twilight years as Councilors.

His quarters aboard the _Shadow of Intent_ were more to his liking. While larger than most with a private bath and small prayer shrine, it was equal parts sleeping and dining areas and strategic hub. The hologram emitters could only be used for tactical displays and receiving or relaying messages throughout the fleet. As he entered, Rtas saw that he had a few messages waiting already, taking the time to address them before the Arbiter arrived.

The Sangheili hero entered just as Rtas was finishing, waiting while the Ship Master transmitted his latest orders. Rtas, upon seeing him, allowed himself to relax. "Old friend," he said, grasping the Arbiter's forearm in greetings. "I am pleased to see you safe and unharmed. Did the Demon recover its construct?"

"It seems so."

Rtas hummed. "In truth, I almost wish it hadn't succeeded."

The Arbiter must have seen the look in his eyes. "He is a skilled and powerful warrior, and we of all should not begrudge an opponent simply because he killed many of our kind."

The barb, kindly as it was, struck true and Rtas bowed his head. "We have failed in our blood oath. My fleet arrived too late to save this world."

"How do you mean?"

"The Parasite. With its arrival, this planet has become tainted and must be destroyed."

"That is unnecessary." Rtas fixed the Arbiter with a confused look. "It is certainly reason to be concerned, and if you had arrived but a moment later your instincts would be correct. However, I believe the threat is contained enough to be dealt with by local glassing."

The Ship Master considered it for a moment. On this continent, human settlements seemed to be much farther apart. "Very well. I will revise my orders to the Ship Commanders. But," he added, "a large swath of land must be destroyed around the city. The Parasite travels quickly, and I know its danger." An ache throbbed in his phantom mandibles.

The Arbiter gave his assent, and Rtas set about updating the other cruisers on the situation. Meanwhile, the Arbiter brought him up to speed on the events that occurred on Earth, particularly with the Prophet of Truth, and Rtas returned the favor by informing him of what had become of Sanghelios.

By the end of their exchange, Rtas felt like his head was spinning.

"Oriné is alive?"

"So it would seem," said the Arbiter, "but I fear that he has chosen Truth's cause above our own."

"I cannot believe he would be a traitor. After all that his family has gone through..." Rtas trailed off, remembering his audience. "Well, I would think he of all Sangheili would have seized the chance to turn against the Prophets."

"Perhaps he was not made aware of the situation. According to the humans, this coup began soon after Regret arrived in the city of New Mombasa. Commander 'Fulsamee might not have understood what was going on. He is likely being manipulated by Truth."

A fire, cooled somewhat by the arrival of the Flood, flashed into new life within Rtas. "So the Prophets' treachery was planned from the start?"

The Arbiter nodded.

Rtas, without thinking, pulled the hilt of his sword off his hip and fingered the activation toggle. "He will pay for his treachery."

"Yes," the Arbiter said, "but first we must pay for ours."

Rtas got on the Ship Net to the bridge. "What is the status of our human guests?"

"They await you on the bridge, Excellency."

Behind the command area was a large space with a tactical desk that came up to the Sangheili's knees, as long and tall as a formal dining table. The surface could emit holograms when necessary, but for the moment it was powered down. As he and the Arbiter entered, Rtas sat in the command throne and bade it hover over to the table.

Standing around it were the Demon, Admiral Hood, and Commander Keyes, along with several Operatives. Both 'Zakam and 'Yonom were there, looking past the humans at the storage device laid on the surface. The Oracle hovered over it, occasionally hitting it with some blue-yellow beam.

Rtas gazed at the device. Is that what the human construct had concealed itself in? "Will it live, Oracle? Can it be saved?"

"Uncertain," it replied. "This storage device has suffered considerable trauma. Its matrices are highly unstable."

Admiral Hood took a step forward. "Perhaps one of _our _technicians..."

Rtas raised his hand. "That will not be necessary."

The admiral looked ready to continue the discussion, but the storage device suddenly sprang to life. The tactical desk responded to its signal, conjuring an image of a small human female made up of code and numerical strings. The Ship Master found himself leaning forward. This was the human construct? It seemed so... insubstantial.

Then again, these creations were responsible for many of the tactical victories the humans had achieved over the Covenant throughout the war. Perhaps its fragile appearance was a bluff of sorts, a way for them to lull those around it into a sense of security. Underestimating one's opponent was the surest way to die.

"Chief!" Its voice sounded distorted. The Oracle exclaimed aloud, but the construct continued: "High Charity, the Prophets' Holy City, is on its way to Earth with an army of Flood." Its holographic interpretation glanced around, looking nervous. "It's not safe. The Gravemind... it knows I'm in the system."

Rtas sat back. High Charity coming _here?_ At last report, the Quarantine Fleet had claimed it was still in orbit around the Sacred Ring. Had something happened? Would he not have been informed? In the back of his mind, he cursed his foolishness: the Council was probably withholding information from him, a petty revenge for his mutiny.

They could not see what was really at stake in this war.

He realized the Demon was staring at him. "It's just a message," it said.

"Let it play."

The construct resumed talking. "But it doesn't know about the Portal, where it leads. On the other side, there's a solution: a way to stop the Flood without firing the remaining Halo rings." Suddenly it convulsed and let out a little cry, dropping to its hands and knees, as if it had been hurt. "Hurry, Chief," it gasped. The Ark... there isn't much time."

The message came to an abrupt end, the construct locked in place.

"I'm sorry," said the Oracle.

"No matter, Oracle," Rtas said, guiding his throne forward. "We've heard enough. Our fight is through the Portal, with the Brutes and the bastard Truth!" Around the room, the Operatives raised their arms and roared in agreement.

Admiral Hood just bowed his head. He seemed weary. "Fine. We'll remain here. Hold out as long as we can."

"Did you not hear?" asked Rtas. "Your world is doomed."

The throne came to a stop just above the floor. He stood and stepped off.

"A Flood army, a Gravemind, has you in its sights. You barely survived a small contamination."

Fire appeared in the admiral's eyes. "And _you_, Ship Master, just glassed half a continent! Maybe the Flood isn't all I should be worried about."

"A single Flood spore can destroy a species," hissed Rtas. "Were it not for the Arbiter's counsel, I would have glassed your _entire planet!_"

Hood was blazing now. He raised his fist, ready for words, but Commander Keyes interceded. "Sir, with respect," she said, "Cortana has a solution."

He turned his eyes on her. "Cortana? Did you see her condition, how damaged she is? She could be corrupted for all we know. Her solution could be a Flood trap!"

"We should go through the Portal, find out for sure."

"What we _should _do, Commander, is understand—clearly—that this is humanity's final stand. Here, at Earth. If we go, we risk everything, every last man, woman, and child. If we stand our ground, we might just have a chance."

"No." The Arbiter stepped forward. "If your construct is wrong, then the Flood has already won."

The Demon, who had been looking at the frozen construct since the message ceased, looked up. Its visor neatly reflected the room as it turned to face the admiral. "I'll find Cortana's solution, and I'll bring it back."

Hood was clearly exhausted. "Earth," he said, "is all we have left. You trust Cortana that much?"

"Sir," said the Demon, standing straighter. "Yes, sir!"

A moment of stillness passed.

Finally, the admiral shook his head. "This is either the best decision you've ever made or the worst. Hell of it is, Chief... I doubt I'll live long enough to find out which." He turned and walked out into the hallway.

Rtas looked at the Demon, the Arbiter, and the Operatives.

"Then we shall prepare for combat."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm very interested in what people have to say about this chapter. I think I've been improving my writing style, so even if you could leave a short note saying whether you thought it was better, worse, or the same, I'd appreciate it greatly.

Furthermore, there are only four more chapters to go until the end.

I'm excited. Are you?


	13. The Ark

**Author's Note: **All right, here's the deal. Today, you're getting Chapter 13; tomorrow, you'll get Chapter 14. On Wednesday, you get Chapter 15. On Thursday, we're taking a cruel break, and on Friday you'll get the last chapter, Chapter 16. That'll wrap this up.

Thanks for sticking it out with me so far. Not much further to go.

* * *

Chapter 13: The Ark

It was time for the next shift.

Rurut the Grunt gently unhooked himself from the methane recharger. Only a gasp of the precious chemical mixture escaped; he had many years of practice while learning the skills that would serve him in the Covenant. Few of them, he learned, involved actual combat. The Elites, before their excommunication, used his kind as cannon fodder, disposable sponges for bullets and shrapnel, not even worthy of a family name.

He had known his family name once. His mother told him, weeks after his birth, him and all his brothers and sisters. Then the Covenant had taken them all to be raised as soldiers for their terrible union. A couple of his sisters had since been rotated out of combat to be bred. Likely they were back on Balaho now.

It was safer, he hoped. Both the Covenant and the recently detached Sangheili had need of Unggoy as slaves and soldiers. They would fight each other to the brink of destruction to preserve that vital resource.

And if one side was close to defeat, probably destroy it to deny it to the other.

Rurut shivered. This wasn't productive thought.

The Slipspace journey through the Portal had taken weeks. During that time, Oriné 'Fulsamee prayed and practiced his martial skills. His efforts were visible in his growing proficiency in his awkward new armor, crafted for him in the style of the Brute Chieftains in order to cement his command, and the way he had begun to use his artificial hand more.

He was still clearly uncomfortable with it, though Rurut wondered if the Sangheili was aware. Unconsciously he stroked it, clenched and unclenched it. The Prophet of Truth had demanded he remove his biological hand as proof of his loyalty, a sacrifice of the flesh.

In Rurut's mind, Oriné had given it too readily.

The practice and piety ended when they emerged from the Portal and found the Ark.

It was a massive structure in space, dwarfing even Halo in its majesty at about 100,000 kilometers across. Its design opened like the petals of a flower, one that looked out over the distant galaxy that all creatures called home. A small star orbited it, offering some approximation of day and night.

Like Halo, its surface was a paradise, terrain and climate as varied as any natural world. It was too warm for Rurut and too cold for Oriné, but its many vistas of idyllic scenery were breathtaking nonetheless. The Sangheili had taken to standing on whatever surface offered the best view and simply staring.

Truth had guided his Dreadnought to rest near the center of the structure, by some burning, dead planetoid that likely provided the raw materials used for the Ark's maintenance. The environment here was colder, more to the Unggoy's tastes, with snow and tundra about. The Covenant then set to work locating and opening the Ark's control center. It was a quick affair: based on the scriptures outlined in the Divinidex, as well as Oriné's practical experience from Halo, finding it was almost easy. It was harder to open, and still the actual activation of the installation eluded the Inquisition—made all the weaker for the departure of the Sangheili kind.

Still, Rurut thought, it was almost like the Great Journey had already begun. He stepped out onto the open-air balcony of the tower in which he had been quartered. It commanded a lovely view of the sea, with some small islands dotting the water below. Birds of an alien sort cut across the sky, casting reflections on the water far below. There was ambient life here, of the sort only glimpsed briefly on Halo. Many of the Jiralhanae and Kig-Yar had taken to hunting, for sport and to augment their rations.

This tower was just one of a whole energy barrier complex designed to protect the center of the Ark, though from what no one a decent answer had. All it shielded was the planetoid in the center and a series of control points around it, one of which was the remote activation point for the Sacred Rings. The others, scouted by the Covenant, were of uncertain purpose.

"The gods have worked their wonders for us in the past," said the Prophet of Truth in a broadcast sermon. "Who are we to question their designs? Doubtless, these additional structures are for other paths, means by which others may achieve what the Forerunners did, but we of the Covenant walk the True Path."

Other Grunts were moving about, changing the guard. One, dressed in the crimson armor of a veteran Major, shuffled up to Rurut. "The Field Master wants to see you," he said.

Rurut made his way inside, walking the curving halls to reach the lift. Manipulating the holographic controls, it sped him to the top of the tower where Oriné had made his command center.

As Truth had ordered Bracktanus to remain at Earth, Oriné was the most experienced battlefield commander available to the Covenant. The Prophet had awarded him a promotion to Field Master, which in turn stirred something of the warrior that Oriné had once been. He was surrounded by Brute Captains now, all receiving orders to be disbursed. At any given time he was in contact with Chieftains spread out across the Ark, making battle plans.

He knew the heretics would follow. It was a matter of time before they arrived.

Of course, his new rank failed to garner the proper respect, though none of the Jiralhanae would say anything in front of him. Rurut had heard through the other Grunts that, in the field, these Captains and Chieftains were quick to insult Oriné and his skills. They wanted him dead, cut to ribbons on their bladed weapons like all the other Sangheili.

Oriné was finishing his orders as Rurut approached. "Go on," he said, beckoning them away. The Captains saluted and left, congregating on the lift and riding it down. Only his two bodyguards remained, themselves easily dismissed to the far side of the room with a nod.

A large and very tall window dominated the room, allowing a striking view of the ocean. Oriné beckoned for his sub-Commander to join him there. "Rurut," he said, "what are we doing?"

"Preparing the way for the Great Journey," replied the Unggoy. It was an automatic response, dictated by protocol and the Divinidex. He hated it.

Oriné let out a low sigh. "I suppose."

Rurut eyed his master carefully. That was the closest he had come to a candid expression of dissatisfaction for a long time. This might be the best moment. Rurut checked: the bodyguards were still standing by the lift, showing no interest in the conversation happening well away from them.

"Excellency," he began, speaking in a low voice, "I have been speaking with the other Grunts ever since we joined up with Truth's forces. It is now clear to me that all may not be as it seems, regarding the Sangheili's break from the Covenant."

Oriné said nothing, only gave a small nod.

Rurut continued, "Those from High Charity say the Jiralhanae struck first. They moved in secret and attacked all at once. Furthermore, they did so under the direction of the Hierarchs."

_Click-click_. The false hand opened and closed.

"No." Oriné's voice was just a whisper. "I will not believe it."

"They say when the Prophet of Regret was assassinated his killer's pursuers were withdrawn by none other than Truth himself, who then ordered the changing of the Honor Guard."

_Click-click_.

"No more."

Rurut wondered if he should continue. There was ample testimony to be found among the Unggoy, discussed while on patrol and in the methane dormitories. In the Covenant, Grunts had no voice. He had long been privy to these covert comments, back when it was simple gossip about their superior officers or politics. Now it was serving a different purpose by inspiring some to forsake the Covenant.

What place had they in it? Gods had no need of slaves.

He fell silent. Oriné continued to stare out the window.

"I know," he said after a time. "I've known for a long time what they say about my people, and I..." He looked back over his shoulder at the Brutes. They were staring at the Sangheili and the Unggoy, their curiosity piqued. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I have no reason to doubt it. The Jiralhanae look at me like I am prey. At the first breath of treachery they will tear me apart, but there is also fear and doubt. If the Elites were cast out but I remain, what does that say to them? The Prophet, he sees me only as a tool, and will like discard me when my use is through.

"But even knowing all that, I cannot turn away from the Covenant. I am more than a follower, I am an accomplice. The things I have done in pursuit of the Great Journey bind me to it in blood. If I were to acknowledge that it was all for nothing..."

That story Rurut knew by rumor. He heard it after joining Oriné in Resolute Unit, just before the attack on Reach. His sister had been accused of heresy by the Covenant, allegedly after discovering something in the holy Divinidex that would have shattered the faith. Oriné had been made to undergo three Trials in Knowledge, Faith, and Combat in order to regain his family's honor.

In Knowledge and Faith, he had succeeded easily. In Combat, however, he had been forced to kill an old friend of his in a duel.

Rurut understood now. Oriné remained attached to the Covenant because of all he lost: his family, his friends. He had watched them all wither and die around him in the name of the Covenant. Turning against it would mean turning against everything he had sacrificed.

Oriné reached out with his organic hand and touched the glass.

"Do you understand, friend," he said, "the importance of cycles?"

Rurut shook his head. Oriné said nothing further.

* * *

Every muscle on Maka 'Fulsam ached.

He tried to stand straighter, but it was difficult. Major 'Taham was drilling both Maka and N'tho 'Sraom in proper sword combat. It was proving difficult, however; when activated, the plasma swords they held were sixty pounds heavier, and Maka's arms had trouble holding their own weight.

Still, he would not bow out. He had been confined to the Healing Halls for two weeks while he mended and was scanned again and again for infection by the Parasite. He had been running through a high concentration of Flood spores, the Healers had told him, and they had to make sure he had not inhaled enough through his unprotected mouth and nostrils for it to become concentrated in his body.

He did not ask what would happen if that were true. He already knew: out the airlock, if he was lucky; death by incineration, if otherwise.

During his recuperation, the _Shadow of Intent_ and the rest of the aptly-named Fleet of Retribution had entered the Portal. It was a long journey, even by Slipspace. The Prophet of Truth had gotten a head start, and his Dreadnought moved more easily through the alternate space than any Covenant vessel.

The _Shadow_, though, seemed as if it was designed to pursue. Its modified Slipspace engines, as well as those of the fleet, kept excellent pace, though they would still emerge several days behind the Prophet—wherever they were going. No one understood their destination, nor its location. Even the Oracle did not know.

Of course, despite being a top-of-the-line vessel, the _Shadow _had some equipment issues. Due to what Maka had come to understand as a hasty departure from Sanghelios, the ship's massive bay—meant to hold battalions of armored units, flying units, and dropships—was nearly empty. To quicken their pace, the two human frigates that had accompanied the Fleet of Retribution were moved into the bay, dwarfed as they were by its size.

Maka gazed up at them now: _Aegis Fate _and _Forward Unto Dawn_.

The bay had been designated a general area, a place where anyone could go to congregate or train. It had been split into two sections, though not deliberately: the area immediately around the frigates had become the human "zone," while the rest was occupied by the Sangheili and allied Unggoy. At first, the humans had even begun to set up a temporary wall around what they perceived to be their area, but their commander quickly ordered it taken down.

Commander Keyes wanted to foster better relations between the two races. Few approved of her idea on either side.

Many of the human soldiers were drilling with Covenant weapons, instructed by some of their own officers and a couple Sangheili Majors who clearly detested the task assigned them. Meanwhile, many Sangheili were practicing with human weapons under Sergeant Johnson. His tone and choice of words were abrasive, but rather than irritate the Sangheili warriors it motivated them.

Some humans had broken away to watch from a distance as Major 'Taham again batted aside N'tho's defense and stopped just short of a killing blow. The Major pulled back and gave the Minor a nod. "Your skills are admirable, but you lack experience. Where were you taught?"

"Excellency, my father was an Operative," N'tho said, breathing heavily from the exertion. "He taught me a great many things before I was sent to war college."

One of the humans wandered over. It was Sergeant Reynolds.

"Hey 'Fulsam," he said, "can I see that thing?"

Maka glanced at 'Taham, surprised to see the Major nodding his approval. He handed over the deactivated hilt.

Reynolds turned it over in his hand. "How does it work?"

"First," Maka said, reaching to correct him, "you are holding it backwards. Tense your arms or you will be overcome by the weight. Squeeze here."

The blade flashed into existence, plasma spilling out of the handle to fill the magnetic field it generated. Almost immediately, the tip dove to the floor and cut a notch in the deck. Reynolds swore and struggled to keep control. "Thing's heavier than it looks, ain't it? I thought, since it was made of energy, it would be... lighter."

'Taham shook his head. "When properly shaped, a plasma sword weighs a great deal. One of the signs that it was constructed wrong is lightness."

"What are the other signs?"

"It will burn your hand off."

Reynolds's lips turned into a grim line. He eased off the contacts and the blade expired. "You know what," he said, handing it to Maka, "I'm just gonna give that back to you now. Gonna go make sure none of my men get beaned in the face when they try to reload the Carbines."

There was a sudden cry of pain. N'tho looked over.

"Too late."

Reynolds jogged away.

'Taham beckoned for Maka to come forward. "If you wish to train despite your injuries, that is your decision. But you must commit to it."

Maka grumbled and stepped forward, activating his blade.

"You know the stances, so you are one step closer to becoming a Dai-mor dancer." Under the helmet, Maka was sure the Major was grinning. "Now show me how to _use _them."

As they went through the motions, Maka let his mind wander back to Earth, to when he saw his brother duel that Sangheili survivor to the death. Oriné had seemed to move easily, fluidly between blows and parries. Maka tried to do the same, but his muscles were stiff and untrained. He stumbled.

A tone rang through his helmet. He gestured for the Major to relent, but from the distracted angle of his head, he had heard the same.

'Taham raised his sword above his head. "We are exiting Slipspace," he called out. "Battle stations!"

Everyone in the hangar roared, including many of the humans, though their cry was more like a chant. Instantly whatever they had been doing was forgotten and left as they piled into their frigates.

Maka and N'tho fell into step behind Major 'Taham as he guided them out of the bay.

"The Arbiter has asked that we be on standby to accompany him."

N'tho quickened his pace. "Are we to attack in the first wave, Excellency?"

"No. We do not know what we will find on the other side, but if necessary the humans have offered to make the first landing while our fleet deals with Truth's ships."

A thought occurred that chilled Maka to the bone. "What if the Dreadnought takes part in the battle?"

During the War of Fortune, the contact war between the Sangheili and the San 'Shyuum, the Dreadnought had been a powerful weapon for the enemy. Its material was impervious to all but the most brutal of attacks, weaponry long since abandoned by the Sangheili people. Even if it was the fleet against just Truth's ships, the odds were not in the Sangheili's favor.

'Taham bowed his head. "We will have to pray it does not."

_Yes_, thought Maka, _but pray to whom?_

* * *

Rtas 'Vadum watched through the forward screens as the film of Slipspace peeled back, revealing something he had never expected to see: a world flattened and gently curving outwards, with spokes and petals. A star, too small to be natural, hung in space nearby. Above it was a spiral galaxy, perhaps _the _spiral galaxy. Instantly he was reminded of Halo, but it was too massive, _too _advanced. This was something completely different.

And it was already occupied.

"Brute ships," announced the tactical officer, "staggered line. Ship Master, they outnumber us three to one!"

Thirty Jiralhanae ships against his ten? Laughable.

"Then it is an even fight." He gestured to the communications officer. "All cruisers, fire at will! Burn their mongrel hides." As the bridge crew set to work, Rtas scanned over the data himself. He could rely on the Brutes' inability to properly grasp the intricacies of ship-to-ship combat: they would treat their larger vessels as weapons platforms, unmoving and vulnerable, and assign the cruisers to protect them, leading the offensive with only Seraph fighters and boarding craft.

It was an excellent tactic in a child's simulator, but Rtas and his Ship Commanders would pick them apart piece by piece.

He had only two concerns at this point: the human frigates, too small in tonnage to contribute anything useful to the battle, and the Dreadnought.

He hailed Commander Keyes. "Launch your ships. We will provide cover until you can find a safe landing zone."

Her face appeared on one of the side monitors. "Will do. Have you found Truth's ship yet?"

"No, but he will raise his treacherous head soon enough, and when he does we will cut it from his shoulders."

"Good. I've identified landing sites for the _Dawn _and the _Fate_ in what appears to be a desert. Troops are already on their way to secure them. Once we're down, we'll start looking for evidence of where Truth is hiding. Keyes out."

Her face disappeared. Rtas turned back to the battle at hand.

* * *

Blessed Unit waited in the Phantom. Kasa 'Yonom helped the Unggoy secure their methane tanks. They were lightly armed: when their mission came, they would have to move fast.

All of the Operatives had been assembled just before the _Shadow of Intent_ came out of Slipspace. There were few of them, and most of their ranks were Sangheili. Not many Unggoy had survived the Schism. According to some reports, most Operatives had sided with the Jiralhanae and other Loyalists. The action on Earth had further served to deplete their ranks.

What remained of these teams, then, was all the more important.

The Arbiter had come to address them minutes ago. "Operatives," he said, "below us lies another Forerunner installation, far greater than any we have encountered before. As the humans made their landing, they sighted what they believe is a map room, the kind we have seen before. From that, we can assume this place holds many of the same fixtures as the Halos.

"Your mission will be to act on this knowledge. Standby in the Phantoms, and your team's assignments shall be sent to you."

The Operatives saluted as one and went to the dropships, where they waited now.

Balask 'Zakam listened to the Battle Net on his helmet while Kasa inspected his Beam Rifle and Carbine. If this place, the Ark if the rumors were to be believed, was like Halo, then he could expect open spaces and cramped passages, a variety of terrain. It was difficult to choose his weapons.

'Zakam nodded. "We have our assignment, to locate this installation's Silent Cartographer."

"I thought the humans had seen it during their landing?"

"We must confirm it." He pounded on the door to the cockpit. "Pilot, take us out!"

_"Very well, Excellency."_ The Phantom lurched and glided out of the _Shadow_'s massive hangar. The space above the Ark was alive with combat, the ships of the Sangheili and Loyalists clashing in a grand battle. Via hologram, Kasa caught sight of one of the human frigates as it fired its cannon, blasting a sizeable hole in one of the enemy cruisers.

Time and again, humanity proved its veracity even in the face of overwhelming odds. He could find room in his heart to respect them.

Blessed's Phantom was joined by several others as they descended into the Ark's contained atmosphere. All of the Sangheili's vehicles had been painted a deep green to differentiate them from the purple Loyalists. It was a tough adjustment to get used to: verdant colors had long been a symbol of youth and inexperience. Elite Juniors, Sangheili still enrolled in war college, wore that color.

Missiles flashed by and slammed into a flight of enemy Seraphs.

Kasa understood the change, of course: at a glance, the humans knew who was friend and who was foe.

The Phantom hummed a little more intensely as it transitioned into the atmosphere. Soon, Kasa found himself staring a real-time projection of the landscape. If Halo had been breathtaking in its majesty, this Ark was that and more. The amount of available surface area was equivalent to approximately ten worlds. Facilities towered over the natural landscape like massive sentinels.

Perhaps more intriguing was the presence of a galaxy nearby. For a moment the sight failed to register, but he quickly realized the gravity of what he was seeing: his native galaxy, only somewhat larger than the suns visible from Sanghelios.

_How far have we come?_

The sky became streaked with contrails, pieces of ships falling to the artificial land below. A quick check of the Battle Net revealed good news: the Sangheili fleet was winning, easily routing the Jiralhanae ships. The wreckage he was seeing was from a Loyalist vessel that had tried to run but was cut down by the _Shadow_'s energy projector.

_Our vengeance shall be realized_, thought Kasa, _but the bulk of our task lies ahead._

Below them was a vast desert that butted up against an ocean, bisected by a Sentinel Wall. For a moment, Kasa's blood ran cold: the last Sentinel Wall he visited had been infested with Flood, the only thing standing between the rest of Delta Halo and the Quarantine Zone. It was there, while fighting off the Parasite for their very lives, that Blessed Unit had learned of the Jiralhanae treachery.

'Zakam pointed. "That is where the humans claim to have seen the Cartographer."

"Shall we descend directly to it?"

"The humans claim that the installation's security systems attempted to shoot them down when they drew near. We shall not make the same mistake." He keyed the pilot on the Battle Net. "Bring us down on a platform on the contested side."

_"Yes, Excellency."_

The dropship settled down onto a spar that jutted from the side of the wall and curved down into the sand far below. Nearby the battle raged as the humans struggled to seize their landing zones. For a moment, Kasa yearned to be with them; theirs seemed the more honest fight. He quickly squelched that, remembering his Operative training. _True battles are neither sought nor won in the light. They are conducted in the dark._

Blessed Unit disembarked via gravity lift, and the Phantom rose quickly. _"I will remain on station,"_ said the pilot. _"Signal me when you are ready to be retrieved."_

'Zakam said nothing in reply, simply started climbing.

Kasa, Nunot and Opom were right behind him. "How shall we get inside?"

"Experience shows that there are many passages through a Sentinel Wall, if one knows where to look," the Senior Operative said as he pulled himself up the structure. Small grooves were frequent, making excellent handholds. The Sangheili had to concentrate, their hooves not meant for such endeavors, but the Unggoy were natural climbers even despite their methane tanks. "Once we find such a way, we will exploit it."

"What if the Parasite waits within?"

"Then we fight, though I do not believe we shall find it here."

"Why not?"

It was Nunot who answered Kasa: "If the Flood was already here, it would not conspire to follow us from the humans' world." The human construct had implied that the Parasite was seeking the Ark as well, likely for its own salvation. The Sangheili wondered how far behind High Charity was; it would also have a weeks-long journey to make, unless it had devised some insidious improvements of its own.

That chilled the young Operative. He would abandon that line of thought, for now.

Instead he focused on the Unggoy. Perhaps it was because they found themselves in an environment to showcase their natural abilities, but their spirits seemed raised. Was it because victory was near at hand, perhaps even the end of this long war? Or had the death of Sesep on High Charity galvanized their resolve more than he anticipated?

No matter the cause, the Unggoy were the first to find a door. It was sealed, but by the time the Sangheili hauled themselves onto the small landing Opom was already working on the locking mechanism.

Moments later, the red indicator on the door switched to a cool blue and the passage opened. A strange, putrid smell wafted out.

Blessed Unit entered, weapons drawn and ready. Soon they found the source.

Several Jiralhanae, Kig-Yar, and Unggoy lay on the ground, their bodies burned horribly. Their weapons had been rendered twisted and useless by some extreme heat. Kasa knelt and inspected them closely, but he knew it was not the Parasite's doing.

"Sentinels," he said.

'Zakam nodded. "I agree. They must be present here as a security system as well." He looked to the Unggoy. "Plasma weapons are the most effective. And by the Rings, do not let your tanks get hit."

The Unggoy nodded and checked their pistols 'charges. Kasa had no plasma weaponry, merely hefted his Carbine. It wasn't as effective, but he had felled many of the mechanical things with it on the sacred ring. 'Zakam himself had two plasma rifles, one gripped in each hand. They would be ready.

At first the hallways were cramped and poorly lit, but as they moved forward the architecture brightened and opened up a little. Here and there they found signs of battle, a few destroyed Sentinels but more Loyalist bodies. Kasa could only assume that these teams had been sent into the wall to search for controls, some way to guide the defensive capabilities within to beat back the Sangheili and humans. Thankfully, they seemed to have been unsuccessful.

Still, it gave him an idea. "Wait, Excellency. Can we contact the Oracle?"

'Zakam paused and cocked his head. "Doubtful. It went with the humans."

Opom snorted. "Why with the humans? It seems to favor them."

"It calls them 'Reclaimers,' and we have seen humans use Forerunner technology with greater ease than ourselves many times already," Kasa said. How deep did the Prophets' lies go? In retrospect, the humans hardly seemed like ancient enemies of the Forerunners, more like their inheritors. "However, if the humans mean to push through the wall themselves, we may be able to ease their passage."

"If we can," said 'Zakam, "but be mindful of our mission. We must confirm the Cartographer's presence."

It took several more minutes for Blessed Unit to emerge on the other side of the Sentinel Wall. Surprisingly, they had not encountered any Sentinels on their way. Kasa wondered if it was luck or some design.

Breaching the wall was but one of their hurdles, however: ahead lay a large structure, connected to the wall by a comparatively narrow barrier with an overhead walkway that would leave them exposed to sniper fire. The Covenant was present in large numbers below.

Ahead of them was a bulbous structure that jutted out over a large gap, where the water from the sea fell in an eternal waterfall.

"It certainly resembles the Silent Cartographer from the first Halo," 'Zakam muttered, "but it is not enough. We must get closer to be certain. Warriors, engage active camouflage. We must push on."

They did so, quickly fading from view and running forward. The Brutes had not posted sentries, making their progress easy and somewhat disappointing. Once they were more than three quarters of the way along, 'Zakam decloaked and crouched low.

"I am certain now," he said. "Send a message to the _Shadow of Intent_: tell them we have located the Cartographer and send the coordinates."

Opom nodded and began transmitting, but Kasa's gaze was fixed at the end of the walkway. "Excellency, I believe that's a security sub-station. We may have a chance to aid the humans."

'Zakam was contemplative, but Opom interrupted: "The Ship Master acknowledges and has ordered us to fall back for retrieval. The Loyalists have deployed a Scarab in the area. Additionally, Exalted Unit has located Truth's Dreadnought, but it was abandoned."

"Fine," replied the Senior Operative. He eyed Kasa carefully. "We will see what aid we can provide, but we cannot linger."

Kasa nodded. "Thank you, Excellency."

Blessed Unit recloaked and set off at a fast pace for the sub-station. When they arrived, they quickly cleared the room and surveyed their options. A hard-light console awaited them, and when activated it projected a large hologram, depicting the Silent Cartographer.

"It does not control the wall," said Kasa, "but I can release some of the locks on the Cartographer itself. Stand by." He quickly set to deciphering the controls. It was immensely complicated, but it seemed to lack the physical danger present at other installations. Perhaps, with the Ark so far removed from everything else, the Forerunners had perceived fewer threats and relaxed their security.

He had successfully unlocked several levels—mindful that anything he opened would allow the Covenant access as well—when he heard a humming noise behind him.

"Sentinels!" called Nunot.

Kasa whirled around. Hovering in the air was a security detail, five Sentinels rushing towards them. Their forward "eyes" glowed and a crimson beam lashed out. The Operative dove to the deck, narrowly avoiding the attack as the laser washed over the panel behind him. The hologram sputtered and vanished.

'Zakam was already unloading his plasma rifles at them. "Counter-attack!"

The rest of Blessed moved. Kasa took up a protective position in front of the Unggoy, using his personal shields to help as they overcharged their plasma pistols and fired. The globs of energy homed through the air and found their marks, instantly overloading both robots' systems and sending them crashing down to the sand far below.

The Sangheili were successful as well, with 'Zakam's shots scything through one as his Junior Operative peppered another with his Carbine until it sparked and fell, inert.

One remained. With a cry, Opom lobbed a plasma grenade and stuck it on the Sentinel's left spar. It spun, confused by the grenade's electromagnetic properties before it detonated, showering the Operatives with shrapnel.

Kasa huffed. "I was able to disable most of the security locks... but not all."

'Zakam glanced over the edge. "The Jiralhanae certainly witnessed that. Quickly, camouflage and retreat!"

Banshees howled overhead, searching for the source of the disturbance, but Blessed slipped away below their scrutiny.

As they ran, they received updates on the other Special Operations teams. Most had found structures that had little tactical significance, but there were two important discoveries: Exalted Unit had located the Prophet of Truth's Dreadnought, but it was found to be abandoned. They surmised that it had run out of power after activating the Portal and had been scuttled.

Sacred Unit, however, had more interesting news.

They had located the bulk of Truth's forces surrounding a citadel protected by a barrier complex. An hour later, after fighting their way to the Cartographer, the humans confirmed that the Citadel was the installation's control room.

It was time for revenge.

* * *

It should have gone without saying that Antarctica was cold, but despite his age and alleged wisdom, it was the first thing that Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood mentioned when he stepped out of the Pelican and onto the exposed landing pad. Instantly one of his aides, a bright young lieutenant, was quick to hand him a heavy parka that slipped easily over his uniform.

The facility was one of many that had stood for years in neglect and then haphazardly refortified in the weeks after Australia was glassed. A romantic vice admiral had designated the old base as "Last Hope," but according to the rumor mill the Marines preferred "Doomed Hellhole."

Morale was not what it could have been.

Through the entrance hall guarded by a sentry gun and a security checkpoint, the base became warmer. Hood refused to relinquish his parka, however. Marines and officers saluted and parted before him. They all looked exhausted; some walked around on crutches or with slings. He made a point of returning their salutes as he passed, but he was in a hurry.

An elevator took him deeper. The base was set into one of the ice shelves. It used to be a research outpost, but after the fall of the Hive ONI had set about bringing it up to date and expanding it under the ice. It took a great deal of effort that was very difficult to hide from the Covenant: for most of the construction, the UNSC had waged costly distraction operations elsewhere.

Now, with Truth gone and only a portion of the Covenant fleet remaining—large as it was—all that work had paid off.

He and his aide entered a briefing room. Technicians hustled about with monitors and data pads, but in the center over a three-dimensional hologram table stood two ONI officers in their armor. One was a woman, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail; the other was a square-jawed man. Their helmets rested on the table, providing an obstacle for the miniature Covenant vessels to navigate around and, in a few cases, glide right through.

As Hood walked up, the two snapped to attention.

He returned their salute. "As you were."

"Sir." Captain Veronica Dare pulled her helmet off the table and held it under her arm. "The echo is getting worse."

"How bad?"

Major Roman Bianchi scratched at his stubbly hair. "It's big. _Really _big, bigger than anything we've seen. We can't be sure while it's still in Slipspace, but we think the object might be a single mass. And it's getting closer."

The hologram changed, showing graphs and spectrographic analyses, as well as an estimated shape. It was impossibly large and round, almost spherical but the probes they had sent to observe it had shown it to be uneven on the bottom.

Admiral Hood touched the tabletop. It read his biometrics and called up the intelligence he had stored in his neural weave. He projected the flat images over the analysis: images of High Charity, as recovered by the Marines on Delta Halo.

He cursed under his breath. There could be no question now.

"Where's it headed?"

Dare changed the table's image to the Portal, where New Mombasa once stood. "Right for the artifact, sir. There's no telling when it'll emerge from its Slipspace tunnel, or even if it will."

Hood looked up at the two officers. "Is that even possible?"

Bianchi shrugged. "Unfortunately, sir, we have no idea of the capabilities of the artifact. High Charity might have to exit Slipspace in order to enter the Portal, or it may be able to tunnel directly into the Portal's path and continue on from there. That'll be the ideal situation, but I have a few battalions of ODSTs standing by if it enters real space and decides to drop a few infested rocks on us before continuing."

Even though Truth was gone, the fighting hadn't stopped. The seventy-three Covenant vessels that remained behind were meant as a rear guard. Shortly after the Sangheili fleet had left, they had swooped in and taken up defensive positions around the Portal. They weren't allowing anybody close.

Under different circumstances, Hood might have relished the idea: let the Covenant worry about the Flood. However, it was Earth that was at risk, and he still had not forgotten the Ship Master's words.

_A Flood army..._

A terminal in the room lit up. One of the technicians eyed it. "Large mass approaching."

Dare eyed the readout. "No sign of Slipspace rupture yet."

"We've seen the Covenant jump into an atmosphere," said Bianchi. "The Flood might be trying the same thing."

"If they do, we're screwed."

"The object is ten seconds from the Portal."

Bianchi had his hand on the alert command, ready to scramble the Helljumpers if they were needed. Hood watched, feeling his stomach buzz. If they would just...

"Slipspace echo has made contact with the portal... standby..."

He sucked in a breath.

"It's gone, sirs. The object has accelerated along the Portal's path."

He exhaled. That was _one _less thing to worry about: they were still fighting the Covenant across the planet, but at least it wouldn't turn into a two-front war. Bianchi used the back of his glove to wipe the sheen of sweat off his forehead.

Dare, however, remained rigid, reading over the final telemetry. "Major," she said, her voice hoarse, "look at these numbers."

Bianchi looked over and turned pale. "That's... not possible."

"What?" Hood felt the tension returning.

"If these numbers are correct, then High Charity was accelerating _much _faster along the tunnel than the Elites, or even Truth's ship."

"How long until intercept?"

"Well, we don't know where they went, but..." Dare tapped her finger nervously on the edge of the table. "However long it took the Elites and Commander Keyes to reach their destination, High Charity will be there in a fraction of the time."

Hood lowered his head. Miranda had already put a lot on the line, a desperate gamble to save the human race... the galaxy, even. She'd be facing down the Prophet of Truth with monsters waiting at the backdoor.

_They'll have to pull through_.

* * *

Three holodrones intruded on Oriné 'Fulsamee's peace.

He already felt drained: his conversation with Rurut had been just that morning—whatever concepts like _morning _counted for in a place like this. He spent most of the day staring out the large window at the sea, breaking his reverie only to address some logistical concern. His bodyguards still lingered by the lift, but they had no reason to keep their eyes on Oriné at all times and so had turned to conversation in their natural tongue.

All growls and barks. It was hard on the ears.

The holodrones landed, and above them formed the shapes of his three visitors: the Chieftains from the towers adjacent to his own, and the Prophet of Truth. He fell to his knee and bowed his head. "Your holiness," he said, deliberately ignoring the Brutes. "How may I serve?"

"Rise, 'Fulsamee." He did. "You are aware that the humans and your heretic kind have followed us?"

"I have heard the reports, Your Excellence." _And seen the wreckage of your fleet fall from the skies._ He had gleaned some measure of satisfaction from seeing a damaged carrier, struggling to maintain its altitude, crash into the ocean on the horizon and be lost.

"They draw near, hoping, no doubt, to delay the Great Journey. But we shall not be stopped, and the salvation of all who are worthy is at hand. Including you, Commander."

Oriné tried to feel something. Relief, exultation, even simple dread. There was nothing.

"What would you have me do?"

"Ready your defenses. If possible, capture one of the humans alive. Do not fail in your defense, or you will have imperiled the Great Journey."

Truth vanished, the spent drone falling to the floor.

Kantus, the Chieftain of the rightmost tower, huffed and plucked at his beard. He groomed it almost reverently, every morning and night. It had become a point of pride for him, and thus all Jiralhanae under his command had to pay similar attention to their own hair.

"We must assume they will land their troops. They haven't the firepower to destroy these towers themselves. 'Fulsamee, you are a filthy Sangheili. What would you do in this situation?"

Gullenus chuckled. Oriné fixed them each with a glare, but the effect seemed lost over hologram. "I presume they will be prepared for such a conflict, if they know what awaits them. You have anti-air Wraiths, have you not?"

"Yes," said Kantus, "as well as two full squadrons of Banshees. They will be sufficient?"

"Undoubtedly." _Not_. "Gullenus, your sector has a beach, yes?"

Gullenus beat his chest. "I will bring all my armor down. They will not set one heretical foot upon my soil!"

"A foolish choice, born of a foolish mind." Oriné could not keep his tongue in check, but it felt good. His tone gave his words an edge it had lacked before. "Bring out your anti-air Wraiths and set your turrets along the shore. Leave the bulk of your armor in reserve to engage them as they bottleneck along the path to your tower."

The Jiralhanae snarled. He would not follow these orders, but Oriné knew that. He'd put too many of his troops on the beach and not keep enough back to reinforce them. It would give the assault an opening...

For what? Oriné was thinking such treacherous thoughts, but he did not want to stop.

Something inside him had been awoken, more than just the thrill of battle. It was a defiance he had not felt since he stormed into the Council amphitheater on High Charity to defend his sister from her accusers. He thought of the fire that pushed him forward. His blood warmed at the memory.

Then, more than any time since, he had been a warrior.

With a motion, he drew his sword and swung it through the drones, severing the connection and banishing the images of the Chieftains from his presence. Quickly he ordered all warriors to muster and prepare for battle, even going so far as to send his bodyguards down the lift to fight.

He would not survive this encounter. He knew it.

But he would die a warrior.


	14. Brothers

Chapter 14: Brothers

A cool breeze, scented with water and salt, flowed into the troop compartment as the Phantom lowered its side doors. Two Unggoy grabbed the side guns and readied them, though the assault force was still minutes away from its target.

Maka 'Fulsam gripped a handhold, the joints in his hand popping. He was still not fully recovered, and now he was sore from sword practice.

But he would not back down from this fight.

The Arbiter, also in the hold along with N'tho 'Sraom and Major 'Taham, keyed the pilot on the Battle Net. "Status."

"We are approaching the barrier, Arbiter," replied Anli 'Rutas. "The carrier is not far behind us."

Five human dropships flew formation with the two Phantoms. It was a joint operation, strictly speaking, but the Sangheili and humans had separate entry points. Ostensibly it would help keep the confusion to a minimum; in truth, the Sangheili were still wary that the humans might take advantage of the situation to exact some personal revenge. It had been the Elites of the Covenant, after all, who led the fleets in a decades-long genocide.

Not that the distrust went one way, of course.

Commander Keyes addressed the formation. _"We hit these three generators, and the barrier will fall?"_

_"A small section, yes,"_ replied the Oracle.

_"Good enough. Johnson, drop the Chief at the first generator then head to the third. The Elites will punch right down the middle."_

The Pelicans and Phantoms broke formation, the latter accelerating towards the central tower. Almost immediately they were met by a squadron of Banshees; the Unggoy on the turrets began firing, aiming for the anti-gravity pods that kept them aloft.

The dropships executed evasive maneuvers that left Maka straining to keep his grip. Even the Arbiter seemed hard-pressed to remain upright and not tumble out of the Phantom as withering anti-air fire lanced up from the landing on the tower.

'Taham seemed the least perturbed, but his helmet hid his features. "This is a strong defense, certainly more competent than any we have faced so far. How have the Jiralhanae improved this much?"

The Arbiter glanced at Maka before responding. "I do not think the Brutes are responsible."

Again, Maka was tickled by familiarity. Who was the Arbiter, really? All his records had been expunged when he had been given the burden.

"Pilots," continued the Sangheili hero, "weave through the fire and drop us where you can. Retreat and engage your active camouflage. We shall contact you when our mission is completed." The pilots affirmed and the Phantoms rushed straight in, avoiding most of the enemy suppression by virtue of their audacity.

Within, twenty-four Sangheili activated their shields.

The Phantom swung right up to the lip of the tower landing and the warriors jumped out, firing and hollering. They were immediately set upon by Brutes, Jackals, and Grunts. Chaos and bloodshed guided the events that followed, but the Sangheili were prepared for this encounter. Operating in groups, those at the very front of the push did little more than soak up plasma; when their shields failed, they fell back and those behind moved to the front to take their place.

Inch by inch, they won ground. The Phantoms offered supporting fire while they could, but soon they followed the Arbiter's orders and fell back, vanishing into the air as their experimental camouflage systems activated. By then, the Sangheili had their foothold.

"Push forward," called the Arbiter. Two Majors and a handful of Minors hurried up the incline into the tower proper. More fighting could be heard, and many others, hungry for glory, followed while shouting curses at the Jiralhanae and the Prophets.

As they pressed into the tower, the Sangheili found the fighting difficult and costly. Already several of their own had fallen or been seriously wounded by Brutes and Jackals waiting in blind corners, setting many of the typically narrow Forerunner halls as kill zones. Some diversions had been implemented, such as holo-drones, to draw attention and waste ammunition; some Sangheili found themselves resorting to hand-to-hand combat or their energy swords, though their enthusiasm was not dulled.

Still, it was a difficult fight, and Maka found himself hard-pressed to keep up. By the time they had slain the last Jiralhanae and made a blood-slicked trail to the lift, he was breathing heavily. He wondered if he could, perhaps, remain at the bottom on guard duty. There was no call for him to continue the fight at the top of the tower, when there were so many more qualified warriors than he.

Fate, or rather the Arbiter, had different plans.

"All of you," he said, "remain here and guard the way. 'Fulsam and I will continue alone."

Maka's eyes widened. _What?_

"Arbiter," said Major 'Taham, "let us accompany you."

"No." There was a distant sadness in the Arbiter's golden eyes. "This is our fight." The two of them stepped onto the platform and pressed the holographic control. It began to rise.

Maka turned to the Arbiter. "Why me?"

He deactivated his shields. Confused, Maka followed suit.

"Because of whom we must now face, together."

* * *

Oriné 'Fulsamee watched the battle unfold, as the Phantoms first approached and the Sangheili beached on the platform, and through various recording devices as the assault broke each layer of his defenses. It was to be expected; the Brutes barely understood the tactics he had outlined and failed to make any meaningful impact on the attack.

He saw when the Sangheili paused before two stepped onto the lift. _Only two? The Arbiter and his second._ It seemed arrogant to Oriné, but he remembered when he fought a duel with seconds.

When, through killing, he had devoted himself fully to the Covenant.

There was no second for him. Rurut was cloaked and hidden in a corner, with orders to intervene only after Oriné had fallen; a sneak attack may eliminate his killers and keep them from deactivating the barrier. The Great Journey must begin, even if they did not live to see it. He had sacrificed his honor for the Covenant before, he could do so again.

The light was starting to fade when the lift arrived. The two shadows stepped off and walked into the main chamber, standing just beyond the window's light. Oriné faced them and activated his sword.

"Arbiter," he said. "I'm flattered you've come to silence me."

"I would silence you with words, not swords," replied the Arbiter.

His voice was achingly familiar, but Oriné would not believe it.

"It's true, then, that the Arbiter has no honor. You've turned against the Great Journey, even after all that our people have sacrificed to achieve it."

"The Great Journey is a lie. I have heard it from the Oracle itself. Halo will not save us."

"Lies!" Oriné took a step forward, swinging his sword in the Arbiter's direction. "I will not betray my faith. I will not stray from the Path, simply because the Parasite stands in my way. My own people are more of an obstacle now, on the cusp of salvation."

The other Sangheili made to reply, but the Arbiter silenced him with a motion. Instead, the ceremonially-armored warrior said, "Is that what you believe, Oriné?"

_Oriné._ His own name cut into him like a knife. When he spoke, it was as a whisper. "Step forward, traitor, so that I may see you."

There was only a moment's hesitation before the Arbiter stepped forward.

That armor had been designed to obscure the wearer's features, but Oriné knew. He felt his good hand begin to tremble. Despite everything, he saw the Arbiter; he knew the curves of his mandibles, the way he held himself. And those gold eyes.

He had only known one Sangheili with gold eyes.

"Orna."

The Arbiter bowed his head. "Yes, my brother."

Anger welled up inside Oriné. "What sorcery is this?" He stormed forward until he was looking his long-lost brother in the face. "You're dead! Your fleet failed to protect Halo and you were executed for it, the Prophet told me that himself! You..." The anger was overwhelming, but Oriné did not raise his sword to strike. Instead he lashed out with his false hand, seizing the Arbiter—Orna—whoever it was by the shoulder.

"I was there when Halo was destroyed," Oriné hissed. "There, on the surface, and I had no idea my own brother was in the fleet. And Fulsa... you were a Supreme Commander! You could have saved her!"

The Arbiter seemed distracted by the mechanical thing that gripped his armor, but he locked eyes with Oriné. "I was sent to a distant front by order of the Hierarchs, just before Fulsa was officially charged. News of the trial reached me too late. As for Halo... I knew your Legion was part of the attack on Reach, but not all the ships that followed by fleet away were my own. How was I to know you were among them?

"And after Halo was destroyed I was placed in prison, in an isolated cell deep within High Charity. Just before my own trial, the Prophet of Truth informed me of your survival and promotion, and that you had gone to Earth." Now he gripped Oriné's forearm, pulling his hand away. "Do you not see? The Prophet has deceived us all along. Everything he did was carefully orchestrated to sunder our people, so that when his treachery came to light we would already be divided. Look at how he succeeded, but it's not too late."

Oriné broke the Arbiter's grip and stumbled back, feeling ill. Was this sudden realization making him dizzy?

No, he slowly realized. Deep down, he had always suspected. What he felt now was the last vestiges of the Covenant's indoctrination breaking away. It had caused him such pain, ruined his family... he owed it a great deal of pain. It was time to begin repayment.

Suddenly he was aware of the other Sangheili. A Minor, who looked as bewildered and overwhelmed as Oriné felt. He turned to Orna. "Your protégé?"

The Arbiter smiled. "Our brother."

The Sangheili stepped forward and bowed. "Excellency," he said, "I am Maka 'Fulsam. It is an honor to finally meet you."

Words failed Oriné. Maka was unknown to him, but he could see the resemblance now. More than anything, he resembled their father. Was this how badly the Covenant functioned? He had never known his brothers, grown and matured in isolation.

Damn the Covenant, and damn the Prophets.

Oriné gave a shaky bow to the young Sangheili. "I have many questions... but I think they should wait."

"Our time is short," said the Arbiter. "Will you join us, brother?"

Oriné straightened. He felt lighter, more relaxed. Somehow, in this maelstrom of his life, he had at last found peace. Rather than answer the Arbiter's question directly, he turned and walked over to the panel that controlled the barrier. With a touch, he deactivated the tower. It hummed loudly for a moment and fell into utter silence.

He turned to face them. "Let us unmake this Covenant."

Something in the corner shifted, a half-hidden shape. Belatedly, Oriné remembered Rurut's hiding place, but Maka—unaware—reacted quicker.

"Assassin!" he cried, and fired his Needler.

* * *

Time unfolded in slow motion for Rurut.

He had been privy to the entire shocking conversation and found himself as relieved as the other Sangheili, if not more so, that Oriné had chosen to stand against the Prophet. Figuring his hiding place was no longer necessary, the Unggoy had come forward.

But the Minor—Maka, was his name?—had caught sight of his camouflage. Before he could deactivate it, the Sangheili screamed a warning and fired.

Instinctively, Rurut dove to the side and fired his plasma pistol.

His active camouflage thwarted the Needler's targeting system so the pink projectile passed harmlessly through the air, shattering on the wall. If he had not moved, the needle would have stuck the Unggoy in the eye.

Rurut's aim was truer.

The green bolt struck Maka in the upper arm, sizzling against his flesh. He yelled in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching the wound. Instantly the Arbiter was between them, Carbine leveled at the Unggoy, but Oriné was instantly between them.

"Stop," he said. "Rurut is a friend."

For a moment, the Arbiter hesitated, but abandoned his would-be target to check Maka. The Minor writhed, cursing, as the two Sangheili peeled back his hand to look at the wound.

The Arbiter breathed a sigh of relief. "It's not serious."

"So you say," hissed Maka.

Oriné took the Minor's good arm and helped him to his feet. "They say the more scars a warrior has, the truer his mettle. You will be fine after we get you to a Healer."

Maka nodded. "I will simply suck it up."

"What?"

"A human expression." He looked at Rurut. "Your friend?"

The Unggoy approached and gave a shallow bow. "Rurut," he introduced himself, "sub-Commander of Blessed Unit under Commander Oriné 'Fulsamee."

"You have no qualms with this?"

"Of course not. I serve my master faithfully."

Both Maka and the Arbiter glanced at Oriné, who could only click his mandibles. "I've lost track of how many times I reprimanded him for his use of such terms, but he doesn't listen." He began walking towards the lift. "Come. As you say, your time is short. Rurut, what does the Battle Net say?"

"Excellency." Rurut consulted his radio. "Gullenus is dead, but Kantus has captured a human and gone to Truth."

The Arbiter's shoulders tensed. "With a human, Truth can activate the Halos."

"Is it true what you said?" Oriné asked as they began to descend. "The Halos are not sacred?"

"There is much you must learn."

* * *

Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum stared at the tactical desk from the command throne; joining him were the Senior Operatives, all towering over the holographic representation of the Citadel and the surrounding area. The Fleet of Retribution, assembled in haste, had no qualified ground commanders, forcing Rtas to rely on the Special Operatives for their expertise. The barrier would fall soon, but the news they had received was grave indeed: Truth had captured one of the humans, and with him he could activate the Halo Array at any moment.

Rtas scratched at the armrest with his claw. Communications was monitoring the Prophet of Truth's uninterrupted broadcast, a sermon as he prepared to begin the Great Journey.

He resisted the urge to sneer. _A great suicide, perhaps_.

Truth had the human, but was not using him yet. Every moment he delayed with hollow words was another moment the Sangheili had to strike. When the barrier fell, the _Shadow of Intent_ would move forward and destroy the entire Citadel with its plasma batteries. The method lacked finesse, but the need for swift victory was too great.

"There." One of the Operatives drew the Ship Master's attention to the mountains around the Citadel. "Two Scarab platforms lie in wait. Why do they not come forward?"

"The Prophet holds them in reserve," said Balask 'Zakam. "Fool. Their main cannon would be sufficient to damage our vessel, but at that range it will be too long before they move into position."

Rtas clicked his mandibles. "Truth's oversight is our gain."

"Excellency," called communications, "there is an incoming transmission from the Arbiter."

"Put it through here."

The landscape shifted, allowing a hand-high Arbiter to form. Next to the tactical display, he appeared a giant. "Arbiter, what news do you bring us?"

"The Demon and I hasten to the third tower. Be ready to move quickly."

"Always."

"There is more." Though difficult to tell at such a resolution, the Arbiter appeared to be smiling. "You are being joined soon by a skilled commander. I'm sure you will put him to proper use." He vanished, leaving the Ship Master and his Operatives puzzled.

They returned to strategizing, but were soon interrupted as door opened, revealing a new figure. At first Rtas was confused by the individual's silhouette; the armor was strange and unfamiliar. It did not take long for him to recognize his face, however.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee!"

The former Ultra saluted. "Just 'Fulsam will do, Ship Master," he said. "Permission to enter the bridge."

"Granted." Rtas rose from his throne and took his old friend's arm in greeting. "It is good to see you alive, but... what are you wearing?"

"It's certainly no curtain."

One of the Operatives growled. "You sided with Truth against our people. Why should we accept you now, after you helped the treacherous San 'Shyuum come this far?"

"I will not deny I have erred," replied Oriné, turning to face the Operative, "and placed my devotion with the wrong side. While I'm sure there will be much I must answer for, I have seen my wrongdoing and will lend my aid in stopping our enemy."

The Operative went for his sword, but 'Zakam was faster. In an instant, as the troubled Sangheili raised his weapon to strike, Blessed's senior struck, his own blade neatly plunging into his target's chest. The war cry evaporated and the dead warrior fell to the deck.

The bridge fell into a shocked silence.

"I will brook no insubordination," rumbled 'Zakam. He turned and saluted Oriné. "Excellency, I hereby return command of Blessed Unit to its rightful leader." He deactivated his sword and offered the hilt. "I have acted out of order and killed a fellow warrior outside the parameters of a legal duel." He bowed his head. "I will accept my fate."

Oriné took the sword and looked at Rtas, concerned. "Ship Master?"

"No," said Rtas. "We will not allow a new civil war to blossom in our midst. _I _will not allow it, not here." He turned to the other Operatives. "I would have Commander 'Fulsam take control of the Special Operations units we have available. Do any of you object?"

Some looked upon the dead body and a few cast wary glances at 'Zakam, but none spoke.

"Very well." Rtas assumed his place in the command throne. "Oriné 'Fulsam, I appoint you Commander of the Special Operations in the Fleet of Retribution. I trust you will serve the position well... and that you will change out of that ridiculous armor soon." He motioned to a few of the Junior Operatives who lingered nearby. "Take the body to the Healers and have them preserve it. Though his convictions were... ill placed, he was still a devoted warrior."

Two of them moved forward and gently lifted the body. Rtas turned away but caught Oriné staring at them as they left.

"Is this how it's been?" he asked quietly.

The Ship Master nodded.

"Excellency," called tactical, "the barrier is falling."

"Advance."

The _Shadow of Intent_ slowly began moving forward into its firing position. Rtas opened a channel. "Now, Prophet, your end has come."

"Slipspace rupture overhead!"

One of the viewing screens changed to show a massive tear in normal space as something came through. At first Rtas thought it might be Brute reinforcements, but what appeared was far larger.

"High Charity...?" His eyes widened as he saw something fast approaching. "By the Gods! Brace for impact!"

A chunk of debris ripped through the carrier's shields and punched through the vessel itself. There was a terrific roar as it passed mere meters from the bridge. The power fluctuated and the ship began to tilt, alarms blaring.

Most of those standing had been thrown to the deck, and Rtas himself strained to keep his seat against the trauma. He looked around. "Status!"

"Power fluctuations across the ship, trying to get life support and gravity systems back on-line... stabilizing..."

The _Shadow _began to level out.

"Plasma cores operating at minimum capacity. Repair crews being dispatched..."

"Breach on decks nineteen through forty-one, multiple fires. Damage control teams on standby."

Oriné pulled himself up. "Have them search for Flood contamination."

"Yes, Excellency."

The bridge's speakers crackled as the Battle Net was restored. _"Ship Master,"_ said Commander Keyes. _"What's your status?"_

"Significant damage," he replied. "Weapons system disabled!"

_"Move to a safe distance. Stay away from the Flood."_

Rtas nodded at the helmsman. Slowly, the ship began to limp away.

"Why would the Parasite come here?"

_"The Ark is out of range," _came the Oracle's voice, _"of all the active installations! Priority: we must contain this outbreak before—"_

Keyes cut it off. _"No! First we stop Truth. Then we deal with the Flood."_

As Rtas struggled to keep his ship together, Oriné turned to the tactical desk. The Operatives had recovered and were now updating the strategic data to show the Flood: pods full of its infected pawns had landed all across the area. Dozens of kilometers away, High Charity had crash-landed, bringing the entire hive to the surface of the Ark.

"The Parasite spreads around the rim," said 'Zakam. "It masses for an attack against the Citadel." He glanced at the mountains. "Truth's reserves are moving in."

Oriné quickly appraised the resources at hand. How quickly the tables turned: now Truth's hesitation was paying off, almost as if he had expected such a development. "Deploy all Phantoms to act as gunboats to keep the Flood at bay for as long as possible. Send our regular infantry into the Citadel's defensive zone. We must keep the way open. Is the ship contaminated?"

Rtas called up the damage reports. "No, there is no sign of the Parasite on board."

"Good." Oriné turned to the Operatives. "Prepare your units for deployment in assault harnesses. When the Flood breaks through to the Citadel, you must defend it as long as possible to give our forces the chance to stop Truth."

"What of the humans?"

"They will have to do their part."

The Operatives did not bother to salute, instead turning to go. Oriné grabbed 'Zakam's shoulder as he passed. "You are now Blessed Unit's commander," he said, returning the warrior's sword. "Rurut is already with the team. Brief them and get them equipped for a protracted defense. I will join you shortly."

'Zakam nodded. "By your word, Excellency."

He left. Oriné remained for a moment, issuing orders over the Battle Net.

Rtas turned his attention back to the screens. He looked at Commander Keyes's face on one of the side monitors. "What are our options, Commander?"

_"Not good," _she replied. _"The Master Chief will push forward to reach the Citadel."_

"I will tell the Arbiter to meet him at the entrance, once he and the Oracle have finished assessing the damage to the Ark."

The bridge door opened, and Rtas turned to see Oriné leaving. "Where are you going?"

"To get changed."

* * *

The Phantom circled the tundra, allowing Oriné the chance to view the battlefield below. Twisted and charred ruins remained of Truth's forces, two wrecked Scarabs and an entire host of smaller armor. They had been smashed by the Demon and the other human soldiers; now it and the Arbiter rushed into the Citadel to confront Truth and bring an end to this war.

What his brother had told him still weighed heavily on Oriné's mind. He was saddened to hear of Yarna 'Orgalmee's death and shocked at the Prophets' betrayal, but the true purpose of the Halo installation...

An unpleasant shiver caught him; his false hand tightened unconsciously.

_The devotions I gave, worth nothing_.

To say nothing of his sister: had she discovered the truth in the apocrypha of the Divinidex? What was it she wanted to tell him, to tell the Covenant? He could never know.

_So pointless a war. To think I once found it glorious._

Still, other matters demanded his attention, such as the Flood. It had grouped along the upper cliffs and vehicle trails, its inexorable advance paused on the ridges. It was waiting, but for what? Reports also indicated that its infected creatures were scaling the far wall of the Citadel too, but there was little he could do about that.

Oriné signaled the pilot to land. He stepped off before the Phantom even touched the ground and waved it back up. If the Parasite wanted this place, so be it, but there would be no passage away for the abomination.

'Zakam and two other Unit Commanders approached, saluting.

"Excellency," said Balask, "our Operatives stand ready to defend the Arbiter, but..."

Oriné peered past them. He saw the human Marines standing in battle lines with the Sangheili, dragging debris to form defensive barriers; a few Minors and Majors remained as well, going so far as to share weapons with their former enemies. Intrigued, the Commander strode over to one that appeared to be leading.

The human stopped cleaning his weapon and gave him a hard stare. "Help you?"

"What is this?" Oriné asked. "You mean to stand with us?"

"The Chief's in there with your pretty boy, too. When they finish up, they'll need an out."

He inclined his head to read the human's name, emblazoned on his armor: Reynolds.

"If you fight well, I see no problem."

"Hey, split-lip." Reynolds jabbed his finger into Oriné's chest. His energy shield sizzled in response. "This is our fight as much as yours. Maybe more. We won't run."

Hesitating, Oriné offered the human a nod and began to leave but another grabbed his elbow.

"You know where 'Fulsam is?"

Now Oriné was becoming confused. "I am Commander 'Fulsam."

"No, man, he's in blue armor, always hangs out with his buddy 'Sraom."

Did he mean Maka? "He was wounded. He's recovering on the ship."

"Ah, too bad. He'll be sorry he missed this fight." The human started to walk away, but stopped and turned back. "You're 'Fulsam, too? What are you, brothers?"

"Yes."

Perhaps the Marine was about to say more, but there was a loud rushing overhead. Oriné looked up to see a Pelican dropship heading for the Citadel at high speed, aiming straight for a large window.

With a crash, it broke through and vanished from sight.

Reynolds was shouting nearby. "What that the commander's bird? What the hell is she doing?"

The Sangheili scrutinized the broken window.

_Saving the galaxy._

* * *

The light bridge faded into existence, linking the control platform to the one on which the Arbiter and the Demon stood, all in a grand and vaulted chamber. Holograms of the seven Halos hovered in the air behind them, alight with activity. Truth had already set the machinery in motion, but there was still time.

They began to cross, the Demon more confidently as the Arbiter remained mindful of the slithering noise at their backs.

He cast a glance over his shoulder. The Flood forms that had followed them all the way to the end now waited, not going any further. Oddly, they had fought against only Truth's forces. It seemed that the Gravemind had its own reasons for wanting the Halos to remain dormant... reasons, the Arbiter was convinced, that weren't to be trusted.

A Pelican was already on the control platform amidst shards of glass. Commander Keyes had crashed it through to save Sergeant Johnson, and it seemed she succeeded... but at great cost. The dark-skinned sergeant cradled her dead body in his lap, gently closing her eyes.

He looked up at the Demon. "Stop the rings," he said. "Save the rest."

The Arbiter felt his adrenaline surge. He stormed around the platform and found the Prophet of Truth on his hands and knees, crawling feebly along the ground after being deprived of his throne. It was an appropriate position, for one so powerful to have been reduced to such a pathetic sight.

He towered over his prey, his shadow falling across the Prophet's back.

"Do you see, Arbiter?" wheezed Truth. "The moment of salvation is at hand."

The Arbiter grabbed Truth's neck—such a fragile thing, like a dried reed—and lifted him up. "It will not last."

"Your kind... never believed in the promise of the sacred rings." His eyes became glassy and unfocused, like he was remembering some distant time.

A gargling noise erupted from his throat as a green, sickly pustule opened on his face. His lips parted, but the voice was not his own; it was instead ancient and chilling: _"Lies for the weak, beacons for the deluded."_

_No!_ The Flood had reached him first. The Gravemind already had him in its thrall.

The Arbiter drew his sword and clenched it, activating the blade. He waved the tip in Truth's face. "I will have my revenge on a Prophet, not a plague!"

Some clarity returned to the Prophet's eyes. He was fighting off the infection, somehow, but his time was limited. He was old and frail and could not fight forever. "My feet tread the path," he gasped. "I shall become a god!"

_"You will be food. Nothing more."_

The pustule erupted, a small tentacle inching out and feeling around.

Motion in the corner of the Arbiter's eye drew his attention, as well as Truth's. The Demon had ascended the platform and now pressed one of the buttons on the holographic panel. As the Prophet let out a moan and turned away in the Arbiter's grasp, the hologram Halos became dim and the chamber that much darker.

It was done. The Halos would not fire.

Truth struggled to his feet, the Sangheili's hand still around his throat. "I... am _Truth_," he cried, mustering all his remaining strength. "The voice of the Covenant!"

The Arbiter tightened his grip, feeling Truth's delicate windpipe crunching under his fingers.

"And so," he hissed, "you must be silenced."

He plunged the sword through the Prophet's back, the tips exploding out his chest. The body screamed and writhed, impaled, but it was all Truth. Only a slight susurrus betrayed the presence of the Flood Infection form as it died with its host.

Letting the body drop, the Arbiter let loose a roar. It was one of victory, but there was sorrow as well: he could not undo the damage already done, to the humans or his own people. Dark times lay ahead for all the residents of the galaxy.

Still, there was a gladness there, even as the Flood began to move.

The Covenant was undone.

_I am Orna 'Fulsamee once more_.

* * *

The Flood attack was swift and certain. One moment, Kasa 'Yonom had been watching the ridge through the scope of his Beam Rifle, seeing the various repugnant creatures doing nothing; the next they had become a cascading wave, spilling down the cliffs and rushing over the flat terrain towards the Citadel.

There was no time to scream a warning. He sighted one of the lead shapes and fired, the thin purple beam cutting through it and three behind it. One merely staggered, its advance hardly slowed, but the other two fell, their Infection forms burned out of their chests.

It would not be long before they rose again, but it was still satisfying.

Hearing the shot, the other defenders turned and engaged. The air soon reeked of gunpowder and ozone mixing. Overhead, the Phantoms initiated strafing runs, but at Commander 'Fulsam's insistence they did not come too low: the Parasite was capable of incredible physical feats, even jumping a dozen meters in the air.

The Flood returned fire with its captured weapons and a few of their own devising: the Pure forms, as they were called, could metamorphosize their shapes to better suit the battlefield environment. Several turned into awkward things with spines all across the front which could be launched at supersonic speeds; others turned into stationary blobs that belched clouds of spores at their enemies.

Kasa double-checked his suit's seal between shots. The Operatives, except for Commander 'Fulsam, wore their assault harnesses against just such an attack, and the humans made use of gas masks and things they called balaclavas that covered their noses and mouths. Oriné hadn't had the time to get fitted for an assault harness and instead followed the humans, taking a scarf and wrapping around his head to cover his mandibles and mouth.

It was hardly effective, but it would serve; it also made him stand out among the troops beside his white armor.

Soon, though, the spores clouded up the entire area, reducing visibility.

The battery ran dry on Kasa's Beam Rifle, so he dropped it and picked up his Carbine, firing. At his side, Opom and Nunot fought with a stationary plasma cannon and a Fuel Rod Gun, while nearby the newly-anointed Commander 'Zakam fired two Needlers.

Around them was a mixture of fellow Operatives and human Marines. One such human ducked behind a nearby barrier as spines ricocheted off. He looked up at Kasa.

"How many you get, squid face?"

Inside his helmet, Kasa found himself grinning. "Are we to make this a competition? Very well, I have slain seventeen... eighteen."

"Tall, ugly, _and _you're a lousy shot." The Marine popped up and fired. "That would be my twenty-third."

"I did not see your kill."

"Oh, I think you know you're beaten and just don't want to admit it. You'll have to run back to Mommy Alligator crying and tell her how much you suck."

Kasa didn't respond, instead finishing out his magazine before priming and throwing a plasma grenade. There was a blue flash in the smog and a screech rang out. He glanced at the human. "There. Twenty-five. If you're feeling discouraged, I'm sure there is a Jiralhanae still about who will share his banana."

The Marine gave him a nod. "Now you're getting it."

While reloading, the young Operative surveyed the situation. The Flood was closing too fast for the defense, no matter how withering their fire. Soon it would be a close-quarters fight.

As if reading his mind, 'Zakam appeared. He tapped each of the Unggoy on the shoulders. "Finish your magazines and abandon your weapons, they will soon be useless." He offered them each a Needler. "Stay with the humans and offer supporting fire."

He straightened and unlimbered his human shotgun, looking at Kasa.

"Are you ready to earn your place in legend, young one?"

Kasa slung his Carbine and drew his energy sword. "Show me the path, Excellency."

As one, all the Operatives sprung from their positions and rushed to face the Flood, all the while chanting, _"Wort! Wort! Wort!"_

* * *

Oriné was exhausted when he saw shapes approaching from behind. Their appearance had been preceded by some distant, prolonged rumble, though he could not imagine what the cause was. In the murky air full of Flood spores, it was almost impossible to tell who was friend or foe; as a matter of principle, he aimed his plasma rifle squarely at the figures.

They broke through the clouds and he recognized them.

The Arbiter and the Demon came to a stop beside him.

Oriné looked at his brother. "Is it done?"

Orna gave a nod. "Yes."

"Then we must leave now. I'll summon the dropships..."

"Wait." The Demon stepped forward. "We'll need to clear a landing zone."

It took a moment for Oriné to adjust to the Demon speaking. According to the tales told over drink by scarred warriors, the Demons were silent and brutal killers.

But its tactics were sound. The defenders were against a cliff's edge, with nowhere to retreat to but a long fall to some unknowable place. They would have to clear an area where the dropships could land and the warriors safely evacuate.

He cast a glance over the battlefield. From what little he could see, there was not much space. It would have to be earned.

Quickly he got on the Battle Net to his Unit Commanders, formulating a plan. A moment later he turned to Orna and the Demon.

"My commanders will stage a diversionary charge while we clear a zone."

They heard the battle cry sound, and all across the line energy swords flashed to life as the Operatives leapt their barriers in order to buy the rest of their forces the time they needed. A few humans went with them. Oriné hadn't the time to admire their courage and valor; he had to act now.

"Warriors!" he called. Human and Sangheili alike turned. "Clear a landing zone!"

It was as if a battle consciousness took over. As one, the two species, once bitter foes, clustered together and began to spread outward. Sangheili moved proactively, stepping in front of bullets, plasma, and spines, allowing their energy shields to take the brunt of the attacks. One even stepped between two humans and a grenade, taking the blast himself.

The humans fought just as hard. Oriné could not help but see humans banding together to form small but powerful groups as the Sangheili spread themselves apart and engaged in single combat.

_There is much we can learn from each other._

Oriné did not shy from his duty, fighting at the head of their push. When his plasma rifle was exhausted, he drew his sword and waded into his enemies, cutting and slashing his way through.

He felt like a warrior. He felt _alive_.

Something hard struck him on the side of his head, upsetting his balance. Another blow came to his midsection, knocking him over. A hulking Flood form towered over him, a titan. It raised a tentacled arm and brought it down, but Oriné was already moving away. He rolled and sprung to his feet, lashing out with his blade.

The thing took the lunge to its chest but did not fall. For his trouble, Oriné received another savage blow; as he stumbled, he wrenched his sword free and made a geometric pattern in the air, cutting through several of its tentacles.

It roared at him and swung, breaking his shields and grabbing the wrist of his false hand.

The metal groaned and cracked under the pressure of its grip, but Oriné only smiled.

"Wrong hand," he hissed, and cut diagonally through its torso.

With a groan, the thing released him and tumbled back. Oriné struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the insistent bleat of his shield alarm. He glanced around and saw the Demon behind him.

It raised its rifle.

_Snow fell across the battlefield, even as plasma fire and the soul-rending screams of the damned echoed throughout the valley. Yarna charged away, gripping his sword and swearing oaths of vengeance. A warm liquid splashed across sub-Commander Oriné's face as Field Commander 'Quarmee fell, missing most of his head._

_Commander 'Ongyomee took a step to his left and Oriné saw it: the gold visor staring out of the darkness._

_Crack_.

Oriné ducked and the Demon fired, bullets tearing into the rising titan. It let out one more shriek and fell unmoving, twisting in the snow and mud.

The Demon walked over and nodded at Oriné. "Watch your back."

The battle was starting to turn against the defenders. Their strength was only so much, and every fallen among the humans and Sangheili was another soldier among the Flood. One Marine begged a recently-turned female, tossing his gun aside and dropping to his knees. Her arm exploded into fragments of bone and long, ropy tentacles and whipped the man's throat. He fell to the ground, as did his head.

It was time to go.

"All dropships, come to my signal," Oriné said over the Battle Net. "Warriors, fall back!"

Those that had rushed out came back cautiously, covering the retreat. There were far fewer of them.

Phantoms and Pelicans circled overhead, most offering additional covering fire while a few descended. Oriné and Orna helped the wounded into the dropships while keeping an eye out for a renewed Flood offensive.

Soon, the humans and regular infantry were evacuated. Oriné called for the Operatives to fall back in teams; among the first to return was Kasa 'Yonom, clutching two energy swords, one flickering as it ran out of plasma to fuel its blades.

He was alone.

Oriné looked at him. "Where is Blessed Unit?"

Kasa just shook his head and stepped onto the Phantom.

* * *

The rush turned into chaos quickly. Kasa fought and cursed, even picking up a dead human's assault rifle after he cut it out of his infected hands. With the rifle in one hand and sword in the other, he did his best to do what Operatives had been trained to avoid: make a scene. Commander 'Zakam and the Unggoy were with him, fighting together.

When it came, it struck hard. 'Zakam was the first to notice the creature of sinew, muscle, and rotted flesh. It was unlike anything ever encountered, twice as tall as any Sangheili.

He unloaded his shotgun at it; when its shells failed to do anything, he cast it aside and drew his sword, leaping into melee combat.

For a moment, he looked as if he was in control: he ducked and sidestepped every blow the creature attempted, even able to parry one or two though the blade only cut an inch deep into its thick flesh. While the thing, the Juggernaut, was a storm of rage and disease, 'Zakam was pure calm.

But even calm faltered in the face of such a creature.

When the Commander made a mistake, it was all over. He stepped to the left when he should have moved to the right; its trunk-like arm came down, breaking through his shields and shattering his neck.

'Zakam dropped, twitched twice, and lay still.

"No!" Kasa heard himself yell as he lunged, rolling to snatch up his master's fallen blade before stabbing both swords through the Juggernaut's chest. It was a move born of desperation, the type of emotion that his Operative training suppressed, but rage now drove the young warrior.

Still, it wasn't enough.

With a swing of its massive arms, it dislodged Kasa's blades and sent him tumbling back to land beside the body of his commander. He looked up and saw it over him, raising one of its massive feet to crush his skull...

Blue lances of plasma slashed at its head, driving it back. On the edge of his vision, Kasa saw Opom slowly advancing with both plasma rifles, firing wildly as the Juggernaut swatted at the bolts. Nunot appeared at Kasa's side, helping him up.

"Commander 'Fulsam has sounded the retreat," he said. "We must go."

The Operative was too dazed to respond, only rose and limped along with the Unggoy's help. They had made it several meters when they heard Opom's dying scream. Kasa turned back. "It still fights."

"Go, Excellency," said Nunot, slipping out from under his elbow. "Live."

Kasa turned to object, but found himself stumbling. Already Nunot was away, running back to the behemoth with a plasma grenade in each hand. He watched as the little Unggoy ran straight up to the Juggernaut and threw himself at it, detonating as he made contact.

He felt the earth-shaking crash as it fell.

The Operative watched, wondering if it would rise again. Something did—something far worse.

It struggled to its newly acquired feet, head lolling to one side at an unnatural angle, sensory tentacles jutting out from the neck. Standing for a moment, as if figuring out how to work its new body, the Combat form slowly turned to face Kasa.

He felt the spirit drain from his body. 'Zakam's corpse now faced him, so newly infected that it was not even discolored. Sickly tentacles spread from a hole in his chest across his torso and down his legs, but his arms had not yet burst from the additional biomass.

"Commander," Kasa breathed, struggling to his feet. He found his energy swords and activated them. One, his own, sputtered from overuse.

The Combat form groaned and lunged. It was no Balask 'Zakam.

_I will do you proud_.

He batted aside the attack with his malfunctioning blade, and with the commander's own carved up the putrid body before him. The cuts were clean and practiced from years of training with 'Zakam. He had groomed the young warrior to become a great Operative.

Even as the Flood fell to pieces, Kasa could swear he saw the ghost of a smile on its twisted mandibles.

* * *

The dropships rose above the roiling battlefield teeming with the newly infected. Oriné grimaced down at them as he leaned out of the Phantom, Orna at his elbow. "I am glad that Truth is dead," the former Ultra said, "but it came at such a price. If the _Shadow of Intent_ cannot repair its weapons in time, how shall we deal with the Flood?"

"There is another way."

"How?"

Orna nodded up. His younger brother craned his neck to see out of the top, and when he did he nearly lost his grip.

In the air, slowly rising into space, was Halo.

"This is more than an Ark," said Orna. "This is the foundry from which all the sacred rings. That is a replacement for the one we saw destroyed. By firing it now before it can pass through the Portal, we can eliminate the Parasite here and prevent it from following."

There it was, hanging in the air: the very ring that had seen his quickest rise and fall, the keystone that had held the Covenant together and crumbled. Had Halo been the start of Oriné's troubles, or merely an emblem of what had been slowly building for his entire life?

He remembered his vision in the Trial of Faith: the unbroken cycle. Even after everything that had happened, the universe would continue to turn. The ancient machines here will keep thundering on, the various creatures of the galaxy will continue to evolve and thrive and fall and die.

Oriné turned back to his brother. "How will you activate it?"

"The Demon's construct lies within the broken remains of High Charity. He and I shall retrieve it, and use the Index it carries from the original ring to light this one." He put his hand on Oriné's shoulder. "Your task is to take Rtas, the ships, and all the survivors back to Earth. Drive off the remains of Truth's fleet. Bring this war to an end."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, Thel 'Vadam is canonically the Arbiter. It was too late to change his identity to match the books, though. You can stop bugging me about it now, I won't mind.


	15. Hour of Retribution

Chapter 15: Hour of Retribution

Ten ships exited the Portal in the thin light of an African morning. Below them, the landscape they had burned before beginning their journey had cooled over two months. No living thing stood for miles, no birds to announce their intrusion nor vermin to stare up, dumbfounded, at these alien things.

Oriné 'Fulsam stood on the bridge of the _Shadow of Intent_ beside Ship Master Rtas 'Vadum. They stared out over the grim scene.

"You know," said Rtas, "I never went back to planets we glassed. I'd heard of some who did, taking some pilgrimage or another, but I always thought them to be romantics and fools."

Oriné remembered Pearl. As the ship he was posted on pulled away, he had stood in the gardens and watched the assembled fleet as it laid waste to the surface. He had wondered what it would be like to be there, on the ground looking up at the ships as they scorched any trace of humanity out of existence. He could not decide if it would be a holy experience, or just one of pure terror.

Now he was certain.

Rtas looked over his bridge crew. "Scan for signs of the Brute ships."

"Ship Master, we are picking up transponders. They are on the far side of the planet. Count: forty-one."

Oriné frowned. "That is much less than what Truth left behind."

"We are also detecting dozens of expiration signals."

At his elbow, Rtas hummed. "Without strong leadership, they turn on each other. It reminds me of the history of their subjugation." On Doisac, in the waning weeks of the siege, the Jiralhanae tribes had engaged in an ill-timed civil war. The bloodbath left them vulnerable to the Sangheili offensive, though the various Commanders and Masters had cited the occurrence as further proof they were not worthy of the Covenant's glory. "If we wait a month or two, they may complete their destruction for us."

"No," said Oriné. "Every moment that fleet remains, the humans are at risk, and we have a large blood debt to pay." How much larger it had grown on the Ark, he reflected. Only a fraction of the humans who had come with the Sangheili were returning, many of them wounded.

_Many of them my fault._

The command throne hovered forward. "Locate the nearest human outpost and notify them of our return," said Rtas to the communications officer. "We shall remain here so as not to cause a panic."

"Yes, Ship Master."

Nearly an hour had passed before a human ship was detected on approach. It was a much smaller class of vessel than even their frigates. Oriné heard tell of them, vessels called Prowlers, and from its sleek design he found the name fitting.

The communications officer turned to the Ship Master. "A Pelican is launching from the ship, requesting permission to come aboard. Admiral Hood is with them."

"Allow it," said Rtas, "and bring the admiral to the bridge. I will receive him." He rose from the chair and stretched, speaking to Oriné without facing him: "Will you join me in welcoming the humans? You are far more a dignitary than I."

Oriné chuffed. "I will overlook your insult," he said, "and merely decline. I have a visit to make."

He bowed and left the bridge.

* * *

The Healing Halls of the _Shadow of Intent_ were plush and calming, infused with soft hues and indirect lighting. Among Healers, those who staffed it were unmatched as they treated many wounded Sangheili, Unggoy, and even some humans.

Maka 'Fulsam found the whole thing relaxing and even familiar. It reminded him of Institution, when a particularly difficult Combat drill had left him with two broken mandibles. He had been blessed then, however; priestesses had been visiting with vestars and urged them to practice their healing arts. For several days he was doted on by many nubile females, who treated his every ache as life-threatening and listened to his tales of training as if they were epics of old, until he was at last kicked out after three days.

A far more agreeable experience than the surly attendants here.

Of course, being shot with a plasma pistol had been leagues more unpleasant, and the wound had served to aggravate his previous injuries, leaving him bedridden for most of the return trip from the Ark. He had been a fool to lower his shields, even though the Arbiter—_Orna _had done so, but he was not alone in cursing his stupidity. N'tho 'Sraom and Major 'Taham had come to visit him every day and kept him abreast of the ship's gossip; Oriné came infrequently, but it was nice to finally get to know his older brother.

They had spoken at length about home and their mother. Maka told him of her transformation from loving soul to paranoid hermit, which left the older Sangheili looking ill himself. In turn, Oriné shared stories of growing up with Orna and Fulsa, speaking highly of their late father.

Maka had just shrugged on his dermal suit and was beginning to attach his armor when Oriné arrived this time. They touched foreheads, perhaps too familiar a gesture while on duty, but having family in the higher ranks had its privileges.

The older warrior sized him up. "They're releasing you?"

"No," said Maka, "but I'm leaving. For too long I've been lounging in all the splendor of pain killers and sour company. Have we come to Earth?"

"Yes. The human admiral is boarding now."

"All the better I return to training, then." Maka attached his bracers, fitting them in place. "We still have Brutes to fight."

Oriné glanced around. "I'm hoping not."

Maka paused while assembling his thoracic cage. "You think they'll surrender?"

"It's not likely," Oriné admitted. "They are proud and stupid, but when we tell them of Truth's death they may see fit to flee. Should they choose to do so, the Ship Master and I have agreed that pursuing them now would be folly. Our task is to free the humans."

The young Sangheili hummed, mulling it over. Finally he sighed. "Your reputation as a war hero may be misplaced, brother."

Oriné could not help smiling, giving Maka a light punch in the arm—the unwounded one. "I have seen a great deal of death and destruction. The Jiralhanae will pay... but not yet."

He didn't mention that he thought Bracktanus would fight to the last. The Chieftain of the Jiralhanae had inherited his title after Tartarus, appointed by the Prophet of Truth for his boldness and predilection for acting out of emotion. Such a pawn was useful not only to control, but to make sure the Brutes remained loyal no matter what.

It was the trait the Sangheili had always lacked, but the San 'Shyuum of old had to make do. The Lekgolo and Kig-Yar were too difficult to control, the Unggoy and Yanme'e too frail and ill-suited for leadership. When they found the Jiralhanae, it must have seemed a blessing: here were potential servants as martial as the Elites but governed by pathos and willingly subservient, the product of a totemic culture that prepared them well for the Covenant.

How far back did these machinations run? Had it always been the intention of the Prophets to replace the Sangheili when a suitable client race was found, or was that a recent conspiracy?

Then again, did it really matter? The whole of the Covenant's faith was based on lie, whether deliberate or a mistake. The religious fallout would be tremendous.

If only the Brutes would see the truth... but no, the Oracle had remained behind with Orna and the Demon. They weren't likely to take Oriné at his word, either.

Maka finished donning his armor. "I will be drilling with the others," he said, "and saying goodbye to the humans. I'm sure they will be returning to their own kind soon." He left the Healing Hall, leaving Oriné to puzzle for the hundredth time if he was making the right decisions.

* * *

Hood's head was bowed slightly as he looked at the casket. It a Sangheili craft, and so much too large for its current occupant. Her hands were crossed over her chest, dark hair spread out under her unmoving head. The Healers had done what they could to repair her wounds, but otherwise left her untouched: her grey uniform was still ruffled and stained with blood on the back.

"If it helps," said Rtas, "she gave her life ending Truth's."

"No." Hood blinked a few times. "It doesn't help at all, Ship Master."

The admiral hadn't reacted well to the news that the Demon, the Arbiter, Johnson and the Oracle had remained behind to quell the Flood's threat, or perhaps he thought the Sangheili should have stayed until the very end. Either way, Commander Keyes's death offered no good news to offer.

With a sigh, Hood pulled back. "Will you let us take her?"

"Of course."

Two humans dressed in black armor and mirrored helmets stepped forward, lifting the casket with some effort. In a solemn march they brought it on board the waiting Pelican. Rtas watched them go. Humans were a grim people, but honorable and dedicated.

"Do you have a plan for the Brutes?" asked Hood.

"The Commander of the Special Operations has a strategy. The Brutes may cut their losses and flee if presented with news of the Prophet's death, or they may choose to fight."

"Could you take their ships if it came down to it?"

"Perhaps. This vessel was severely damaged. Only our pulse lasers are online right now. Our cruisers are in excellent shape, but they would be nine against a fleet of forty that includes five carriers." Rtas clicked his mandibles. "Even if the _Shadow _was at full power, it would be a difficult fight."

The admiral grunted. "We won't be much help. Our fleet's been almost completely annihilated. We're on our last legs." They had been fighting on ever since the Fleet of Retribution left, battling the Jiralhanae with their limited resources and even scoring some tactical victories. Many had died, but still they fought, hoping for a break.

Perhaps the Sangheili were it.

"I cannot ask for your understanding or forgiveness," said Rtas, "but every warrior in my fleet will give his life to save your world. The blood debt we owe your people is great and cannot be repaid easily, but we will try."

Hood said nothing as he boarded the Pelican and left.

* * *

In the end, the Jiralhanae found them. A squadron of cruisers descended from above, weapons at the ready and their gunners screaming. The Sangheili met them in kind, the battle lasting only minutes before the scarred hulks of the Covenant crashed to the ground. At Rtas's command, a single corvette was allowed to escape with information to summon Bracktanus.

It took the better part of a day before the Brute fleet arrived. Rather than approach from above, they came in from the horizon. Even at a distance, though, it was clear something was wrong: the ships were damaged, and there were few of them. Had Bracktanus enough control of his forces, he would have come with the full might of his navy.

Oriné stared at the ships from the _Shadow of Intent_'s bridge. "He is weak."

"Yes," replied Rtas. "I still don't like our chances in a straight battle."

The blackened landscape of Africa spread out below them, reminding the Sangheili that no help was coming: the humans had no ships, and if the High Council was going to send reinforcements, they already would have come.

It was as if Oriné could hear the Ship Master's thoughts. "We are alone," he said in a low voice, "but we will not falter now."

Bracktanus's graying face appeared on one of the screens. The flesh beneath his fur was more drawn than before, and he bore a fresh scar from his cheek upwards, until it was out of sight beneath his helmet. His red eyes smoldered as they fell on the Sangheili.

"So you return. Driven back by the Covenant's might?" From the tone of his voice, he clearly didn't believe that was the case, but the edge of desperation was full of hope.

For the first time, Oriné felt pity for the beast.

Rtas only huffed. "Quite the opposite. Truth lies dead, and the Covenant is broken. The Ark is ours."

There was no rage in the Jiralhanae's features, only a kind of tired resignation.

"Your fleet is small. It will be a minor effort to crush it."

"Yours is divided and weak. Our ships can stand their ground long enough to cut down your pathetic attack when it comes."

"So it shall be war, then? Our last battle?"

"It needn't be," said Oriné.

Bracktanus looked at him with the same anger as when the Sangheili had first been brought before him. "So you have turned your skin once again, 'Fulsamee. Watch this one, Half-Jaw," he said to Rtas, "or he will betray you for the most convenient opportunity."

"I was wrong," replied Oriné, "as are you. But we will offer you the chance to take whatever ships of yours will listen and leave. Our war is over."

"There will always be war between our people."

"Perhaps, but not today."

Bracktanus shook his head, his shaggy mane swinging back and forth. "I will not accept."

Oriné felt crestfallen. He bowed his head.

"... but I will consider a personal challenge."

Instantly, his head snapped back up. A cruel smile had returned to the Chieftain's face.

"You have irritated me in the past, 'Fulsamee, and I would relish the chance to taste your blood for myself."

"Single combat?" Rtas stood from his gravity throne. "No such battle has been fought for centuries."

It had been an old Sangheili practice, back during their days as a fledgling space empire. Entire wars hinged on the outcome of two champions locked in a duel, fleets and armies willing to stand down from their cause based on such a fight. But the practice had fallen to the wayside during the War of Fortune, when the San 'Shyuum would permit such a challenge and then attack anyway if they lost.

And they lost frequently: the entire Sangheili battle doctrine, then as now, emphasized individual merit and honor. Despite their prowess, the San 'Shyuum warriors shared their species' frail stature and weren't well supplied for such direct competition.

The Jiralhanae had the same problem when the Sangheili worked to subjugate them into the Covenant. Though they had a sufficiently martial culture as well, the future Brutes were prone to fits of emotional outburst; their betrayal lacked cunning, but came all the same as they accused the then-Elites of trickery and rushed into traditional combat.

Rtas glowered at Bracktanus. "How can we be sure you will honor the outcome?"

"Simple. I will not lose." When there was no response: "You have my word that the ships under my command will leave this planet should I fall. I will of course need reciprocity from you."

"You have it," said Oriné. Rtas glanced over, but said nothing.

Bracktanus nodded. "Very well. Our place of battle will be the very ground below us. It is inhospitable, but not unlivable."

His image vanished and the Jiralhanae fleet began moving back. Rtas shook his head. "Do you really think he'll honor his word?"

"He doesn't have to. He is the sole force keeping the Jiralhanae together. Without him, the fleet will fall into total anarchy."

"The ships here may not be so inclined. In fact, they may thirst for vengeance." He nodded towards the still-looming Jiralhanae ships.

"Yes," said Oriné slowly, "I know."

Silence hung in the air for a while.

Rtas finally sighed and clicked his mandibles. "I suppose it's our sacrifice to make."

"Sorry, old friend, but it's what we must do."

Oriné began to leave, but Rtas stopped him. "I would be your second."

"No, you'll be needed here for when the combat is over."

The Ship Master unclipped his sword and handed it over. "Then take my blade, at the very least. May it witness the Jiralhanae's demise. For Fulsa's sake, if not my own."

* * *

As Rurut had understood while stationed at the Portal, the African continent was hot and windy, with dry grasses and sand and plateaus everywhere. It remained uncomfortable now, with the blackened, uneven ground burning his feet. For a moment, he entertained the thought of hopping back and forth to give himself some relief, but the gravity of the situation called for nothing of the sort.

Oriné stood nearby, looking up into the sky. "Thank you for being here, Rurut."

"It's my pleasure, Excellency."

"Please don't call me that."

Rurut frowned beneath his mask. Oriné had long been possessed by an unfortunate sympathy uncharacteristic of most Sangheili, certainly not to be found in their most decorated and successful warriors... but here he stood all the same. For a long time, Rurut had struggled with his commander's lack of desire for respect, but in time it he came to realize it was a longing for kinship and family, not leadership, that had driven the Sangheili to his current position.

The Unggoy wondered if Oriné understood the depths of the loyalty he inspired in those who understood his behavior. Rurut had resolved long ago to follow Oriné to the end.

And here they were.

A shape rapidly approaching from the Jiralhanae fleet resolved into a Phantom dropship. It settled onto the ground, casting out flurries of ash and particulate. Two Brutes stepped out, one obviously Bracktanus while the other was unfamiliar to Rurut. Both had seen bloody fighting, as evidenced by their deeply pitted and cracked armor and blackened plasma wounds. Even at a distance, the Unggoy could detect the whiff of burned hair through his breather.

"Commander 'Fulsamee," said the Chieftain, "you come without a second?"

Oriné held his hand out to Rurut. "He is my second."

Bracktanus eyed the Unggoy carefully. "I suppose it doesn't matter, given that you came yourself."

"I have fought duels before and won them. As my second, Rurut will simply be witness to the fairness of this combat and return to my people with word should I fail."

"Very well. You already know Gnaelus. He will serve the same purpose."

In the old legends, there were words to be exchanged, vows and oaths of honor. The saitarelé and Dai-mor danced elegant routines depicting each warrior's moral ground, what they had to lose, before breaking into a complicated and well-rehearsed duel.

Oriné and Bracktanus said nothing. They drew their weapons—a hammer for the Chieftain, a sword for the commander. Then the fight was begun.

It was apparent immediately that Bracktanus had not only size and strength on his side, but the gravity pulse from his hammer allowed him a margin of error when landing blows. Though Oriné could easily duck and weave away from the hammer's head, the waves of energy pushed him in unforeseeable directions and made his shields pop and sizzle.

He wasn't without recourse: by moving further into Bracktanus's center line it was impossible for the Brute to hit him with the head. Oriné quickly used his sword to carve into his opponent's shields and armor.

Rurut watched the fight but his focus was on Gnaelus. The younger Jiralhanae stood by, eyes locked on his Chieftain, but his hand kept straying to the Spiker at his hip. The Unggoy checked his own sidearm, making sure it was in place. In a firefight, there wasn't much he could hope to do: there was no cover, and the Brute's shielding system would absorb more shots than Rurut's own armor.

A cry of pain brought his attention back to the fight. Oriné was on the ground, the pointed end of Bracktanus's hammer digging into his gloved left hand, pinning his sword.

The Chieftain smiled his jagged grin. "You are mine."

Oriné's pained grunting turned into a dark chuckle. "Fool."

"What?"

"Wrong hand."

Bracktanus's eyes flashed with recognition a moment too soon as he jumped back, avoiding the low slash from Oriné's second blade. It cut through the hammer's shaft, freeing his other hand. In a moment, he was back on his feet, holding the two swords at the ready.

The Chieftain changed his grip and lunged, driving the hammer's head straight into Oriné's chest, but as a sickening crack split the air the two blades came down, severing first the hammer and second the arm that held it. His shields flared and vanished, peeling back to reveal a grim set to his features.

Without a word, Oriné shoved his weapons into Bracktanus's neck and pulled them in separate directions.

It was over.

Rurut walked over, no longer feeling the heat beneath his feet. "Excellency?"

"I'm fine," said Oriné. He deactivated the swords and put them on his hip. "My shield generator took the hit, though I believe it's overloaded now."

"We'll examine it on the ship..."

There was movement out of the corner of Rurut's eye. He turned to see Gnaelus drawing a Spiker. Immediately, the Unggoy went for his own plasma pistol, drawing it and firing it while the Brute was still sighting.

The bolt went wide, but served its purpose. Gnaelus instinctively turned to kill the aggressor.

Oriné went into a dead sprint.

There was a shot.

Rurut gave himself credit: he remained standing even as something punched deep into his chest. Oriné didn't break his stride, either; with one movement his sword was out, on, and plunging into the Jiralhanae's chest. Gnaelus was screaming. It was a good thing to hear.

Suddenly Rurut was looking at the sky. It was a beautiful, clear blue, marred only by criss-crossing lines of plasma. Oriné's face appeared above him, looking worried. Why?

"Don't move, Rurut. The Ship Master is sending a dropship with Healers on board."

"Did we win? Is the war over?"

Rurut felt an odd pressure on his arm. He was surprised to see Oriné gripping it.

"Yes," he said, "the war is over. We've won. It's time to go home."

_Good_, Rurut wanted to say. _Then we'll go home, Oriné, you and I. Friends._

The sky turned black as something far above burst and shapes began to rain down.


	16. Scars

Chapter 16: Scars

The chime of Third Bell, First Shift rang across all decks. Maka 'Fulsam hurriedly attached his mandible guards while N'tho 'Sraom fastened his helmet. The armory bustled with activity as Sangheili prepared for their next duty rotation or else shrugged off armor and weapons as their rest cycles began.

"Another rotation of watching over future saitarelé," grunted N'tho as they grabbed their plasma rifles and left the armory. "Yesterday, my charges dragged me all over the ship, wanting to see the engine room, the armories, the Huragok pens, the _bridge_..." He shook his head. "I tell you, friend Maka, even if I understood why we need such religious dancers anymore, the Ship Master would do well to lock them all up in the civilian quarters. Even restrain one or two, such as that particularly impulsive youth. I think she's from the House of Xot."

Maka chuckled. It had been three months since Truth's death at the Ark and the Covenant's end on Earth. Though there was fighting still to be done as the newly-christened Sangheili Empire struggled to rip as many worlds from Jiralhanae hands as possible, he and N'tho had been moved to a more diplomatic posting on board the cruiser _Sacred Touch_ as it ran personnel and supplies between worlds.

Its most recent stop had been at Sanghelios, though not for long enough that Maka could request leave to visit the surface. They had taken aboard a dozen hopeful children to add to the dozens brought from colony worlds, all bound for Virtuous Sanctum for training as very elite saitarelé. He had noticed their eagerness himself as they ran around their assigned sectors, shrieking and playing.

"First of all, they will be Dai-mor, not simple saitarelé," said Maka. "Second, if the Ship Master is comfortable letting them roam with escorts, we should be thankful. After all, if they weren't allowed to do so, they would simply sneak out on their own."

N'tho only grunted.

As for his third point—why train religious figures if the Covenant had proven to be a lie—Maka hadn't worked that out himself yet. Not as many were willing to jump into atheism as N'tho, but there was a profound unease to be sensed among the Sangheili. Maka himself wasn't sure. He could accept that the Forerunners had built the Halos as a terrible weapon that should never be activated, but their achievements as a civilization were nigh-miraculous otherwise.

Did that make them divine, or just an example worth emulating?

His introspective self-examination was interrupted as a figure in crimson armor stepped in front of them. He couldn't believe his eyes.

N'tho was the first to say it. "Major 'Taham?"

"Good to see you both," said the aging Ranger. He was without helm, exposing his scarred, dry skin. "Am I interrupting?"

"We're on duty, Excellency," said Maka.

"Your Ship Master will not mind, I think. Come." He waved them down a side passage where there was no foot traffic. "Your actions in the Great Schism were noticed, as I'm sure you're aware."

N'tho clicked his mandibles. "The Arbiter extended his personal gratitude for our services, as well as a commendation from the High Council."

"Without a promotion attached," grumbled Maka.

"Don't be ungrateful, 'Fulsam. You were being scouted."

_Scouted?_ "For what?"

"Membership in one of the Sangheili's oldest orders: the Ascetics."

Maka was confused. He had read about them in seminary when he was a child, but... "Weren't they dissolved by order of the San 'Shyuum after the Covenant was formed?"

'Taham nodded. "Officially. However, they merely faded from view in order to pursue more Sangheili-centric ideals, should the events such as the Great Schism ever come to pass. They seek warriors now, to help keep our new Empire in one piece in the face of threats both internal and external."

"No," said N'tho, "I recall their legend. They were purists of faith, seeking ideological affirmation in the Divinidex. Their beliefs stood against the San 'Shyuum and the Covenant, so they were done away with."

"Once, perhaps, but no longer." 'Taham looked from one to the other. "Warriors, our people vacillate on the edge of self-destruction. We are an empire without an emperor, war with the Jiralhanae continues, tensions run high with the humans no matter the promise of a cease-fire, and even Sangheili such as the Servants of Abiding Truth conspire to bring down the peace we have achieved.

"It will take blood and effort to build and maintain an empire, and you are being offered a place in forging the pillars that will hold us aloft for the many years to come. Will you accept?"

Maka and N'tho glanced at each other, seeing the answer already there.

"Will we get out of escort duty?"

For the first time they had seen, 'Taham cracked a genuine smile. "No. But when we arrive at Sanctus, you'll be transferred to another ship."

"Very well," said N'tho with a mock sigh. "I suppose we would be fools to refuse."

"Fools we are, friend N'tho," said Maka, clapping his friend on the shoulder, "but fools working together for the future of our race we shall be. Lead on."

* * *

The bridge of the _Shadow of Intent_ was vacant, save for Orna 'Fulsam and Rtas 'Vadum. They stood and waited in front of the holographic projector, having dismissed the crew while they accepted an important summons, one that might decide the fate of the entire ship.

A blue light formed as the projector came to life, creating a life-sized blue-tinted image of Judge 'Orgalmae. They all bowed to each other.

"Ship Master 'Vadum," he said. "Arbiter. I believe the last we spoke, I had just sent you notice of your young sister's impending heresy trial."

Orna nodded. "I was most grateful for the news, Honored Judge, though I regret I could not return in time. The Hierarchs had seen fit to make it impossible. I have recently learned that Thel 'Vadam's mutiny had been orchestrated by Truth and Regret to replace me as Supreme Commander."

"And what a world it might have been had he succeeded, hmm?"

"Indeed."

"You need not be here, Arbiter. My business is with Ship Master 'Vadum."

"His appointment to such a station was by my order, Honored Judge. Even if I do not share the blame for his actions, I deserve to be witness to the consequences."

"As you will." 'Orgalmae turned to regard Rtas. "I suppose I should ask what you were thinking."

Rtas bowed his head. "I acted as I felt was proper, given what I knew. I regret only that it caused such a stir among the politicians."

"I make note of your contemptuous tone, Ship Master, but for your accurate appraisal and swift response I'll say nothing. In truth, the Council has become too complacent and accustomed to bandying words about while the Prophets made all the truly important decisions. In this new era of empire, we'll need to cut the bureaucracy out of our fat, withered arms. Which brings me to why I've decided to contact you now."

Rtas couldn't resist a grin. "Which brings us to why I've remained a Ship Master in exile these past months."

"Hide all you like, your valor will not go unrewarded. Ship Master 'Vadum, despite your few summers—or perhaps because of them—I am prepared to offer you a seat on the Council of Masters upon your return to Sanghelios. We will overlook your previous discretions regarding the Council's decisions."

The grin had become a pale rictus. "This is no reward, it's a punishment. I should have thrown myself into the enemy and died an honorable death rather than return a hero."

"You either accept our offer or face charges of abandoning your post in a time of war."

Orna laughed. "Not even punishment, it's extortion. What will you do, Rtas?"

"I will accept, then, but with a condition: absolution must be offered to the 'Fulsam Lineage, both to Orna for brokering an unauthorized cease-fire and to Oriné for his misguided loyalty to the San 'Shyuum."

The Judge huffed. "It was never our intention to prosecute the Arbiter. As for Commander 'Fulsam, his fate has already been decided. When shall we expect your return?"

Rtas hesitated, to allow Orna to ask the obvious question, but when none was forthcoming he cleared his throat. "We have been invited to attend a memorial service by Lord Admiral Hood, in honor of the human soldiers who went with us to the Ark. It's in a few days. After that, we'll set course for Sanghelios."

"Very good. I will see you on your return, Councilor 'Vaduma." The Judge disappeared.

"Well," hummed Orna, "that went better than I expected."

Rtas growled. "So you say. My father was skilled enough to accomplish great feats of combat _and _annoy the politicians to avoid such a posting. Now my claws will dull, my skin will grow soft, and I'll become some simpering old alcoholic. I have only to look forward to lung failure during a meeting of the state, or perhaps I'll choose noble suicide." He stalked over to his command throne and dropped into it. "Do you really believe that Oriné will be all right?"

"Yes." He spoke with such conviction that, momentarily, the Ship Master forgot his own concern for the middle 'Fulsam son.

Orna stepped into Rtas's line of view. "Did you ever think we would live to see the end of the war, old friend?"

Rtas considered it a moment. "I did," he said, "but not you. I thought you would be killed by accidentally walking out an airlock, or perhaps activating your sword backwards."

"Your confidence is a comfort," said Orna, smiling.

"You're an old soul, Orna, but the last year has made us all like that."

The Arbiter lingered for a moment longer before making his exit, leaving Rtas to sit on the bridge, surrounded by ghosts.

* * *

Oriné stepped out of the Council Hall and felt a warm breeze brush past his face. Despite everything he had been through since arriving, it was good to be home.

A broken skyline awaited him, evidence of his home's recent tribulations. The battle over Sanghelios had been a fierce one, so he had been told, but it was by far the worst combat of the Great Schism so far. Several colony worlds had been lost to spiteful Jiralhanae glassing, but nowhere else had the fighting been so intense and frenzied as it was to defend the homeworld. When he had first made orbit in a corvette and looked upon the grey scars across Sanghelios, he had nearly wept for all that he lost, and all that he might still lose.

But then, he was still feeling vulnerable after his trip to Balaho.

Upon landing, Oriné had been taken into custody and jailed in the Council Hall. While he had been afforded every courtesy, including a cell all to himself away from the Kig-Yar prisoners, it was still made clear that he was considered a traitor to his people. He languished alone for a day until he was brought before the Council, before Judge 'Orgalmae, and given the opportunity to plead his case.

He made no excuses for himself: he had followed the Covenant, unaware of external developments but still turned against his own people. The Councilors had grilled him with questions while discussing his service record amongst themselves, all too much like they did when Fulsa had stood trial.

He knew how this would end: public torture and execution, to show that the Sangheili understood the price of betrayal. Oriné was willing to accept that price. There was nothing left for him now.

So he had been utterly unprepared for the Judge's decision the following morning:

"Commander 'Fulsam, you stood against the Sangheili in a time when warriors such as yourself were needed. You sided with the San 'Shyuum and their Jiralhanae accomplices, killed Sangheili both under your command and by your very hand. Under other circumstances, it's unlikely you would have made it to trial. Instead, your summary execution would be warranted.

"But it's clear that your treachery was misguided, and we... _I _am tired of spilling Sangheili blood. In such a troublesome time, there's something we need more than vengeance, and that's justice. I think justice is something you've been denied for quite some time.

"In light of your prior service, and your timely and crucial defection when confronted with the truth, you will be pardoned of guilt concerning treason. However, you are hereby considered on indefinite leave from the military and ordered to aid in reconstruction efforts until so released from duty by this Council.

"That is all, Oriné 'Fulsam."

So Oriné was free. He still felt like he was in shock, so he just stood staring at the sky until he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned. "Honored Judge, I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Likewise, 'Fulsam," said 'Orgalmae, "but I wished to speak with you."

"I heard about your son. My deepest condolences. He was my truest friend, both on and off the battlefield. Would that he were still alive, I might find more comfort in the war's end."

"As would I."

"How fares your mate?"

"Dead. When she learned of Yarna's fate, my dear Oslu took her own life out of grief."

Oriné was speechless. "I... I am sorry, my lord."

"Don't be. I will follow her soon, after I have prepared the Council for what's to come. An empire without an emperor is a dangerous thing, and so it must be resolved soon."

"I think you would make an excellent candidate, my lord."

"You and many of the sycophants in that chamber, 'Fulsam, but in truth I rather like your brother for such a position. He has already proven a capable leader through his many trials, and he inspires greatness and ability in those who follow him."

Orna as Emperor? Oriné struggled to remember the imperial appellation from ages long past. _Orna 'Fulsamo_. It sounded weird in his head.

Judge 'Orgalmae was looking at him. "I wish you had been with Yarna when he died, 'Fulsam. Perhaps you could have eased his passing into... whatever passes for an afterlife these days."

"Had I been there, Honored Judge, he would not have died alone."

"I have no doubt." He reached out a hand. Oriné grasped his forearm in brotherhood before turning to leave. Already he felt drained, but a more daunting task awaited him, if what Maka told him on the _Shadow of Intent_ was true.

A Minor drove him to Lomak in a Revenant until the roads became impassable with debris, at which point he disembarked and continued on foot. He was surrounded by the cracked and broken memories of childhood, but all he could think of was what awaited him at his journey's end.

There it was: a modest building, mostly untouched by the war that had come to its doorstep. He ascended the gravity lift to the second floor and rang the chime. The flat's door had been drawn across its entrance, rather than the light and informal curtain that had been there for as long as he could remember.

It took a while before there was any response, during which time Oriné had enough time to become anxious. Had she survived the fighting? Who had checked in on her to make sure she was well or else report her as a fatality?

Those thoughts instantly disappeared as the door slowly opened, grinding on servos that had gone unmaintained for a long time. Inside was dark: every curtain must have been drawn, the shutters closed tight. Except for a distant flicker of artificial light there was no illumination.

Sasat stood in the doorway looking up at him.

"My lord! You're alive!"

"Yes, I am," said Oriné, recovering. He had forgotten about their family servant. "Is my mother in?"

"Yes! Yes, she is. I'll go get her right away." She scampered away, leaving the door open, but Oriné felt uncomfortable crossing the threshold. It seemed so dark and cramped within; it was like he couldn't fit through the doorway. Perhaps he had outgrown his old family home.

A shape approached from the darkness and Oriné's hearts leapt into his throat. Was this some trick? A specter of the dead here to haunt him? The Sangheili female's features were gaunt and pale, skin hanging languidly from her neck and the fabric of her clothes faded. The thing before him was full of hate and bile, with hollow eyes.

He didn't recognize his own mother, and when he did he was too overcome to speak.

A flush of recognition came to her face and she reached out a trembling hand that was more like a claw. Instinctively he took it in his, gently cradling it. At last, something familiar: her touch was as soft as he remembered.

"You cannot be," she whispered.

"I'm here, mother," he said. His voice came out choked.

Her hand worked its way out of his and came to a rest on his face, tracing over his still-armored mandibles. Self-conscious, he reached up and undid his helmet, taking it off and dropping it on the ground.

Alsa Sam's mandibles turned up, skin folding into a forgotten configuration as she smiled.

"Oh, Oriné. Oh, my son!"

They embraced. A smell of dust and memory wafted up into his nostrils.

"I'm here, mother," he repeated. All the words he planned fell apart in his mind, replaced by a warm comfort. They had so much to talk about: the end of the war, the fate of her other children... his father. How much did she already know?

He had to grieve for Yarna and feel all the sadness he hadn't allowed himself to feel.

But for now, it was just enough to be there.

"I'm home."

* * *

Everything was groggy and ill-defined. While weeks and months passed objectively, he was only aware of the scant seconds and minutes he was able to stay conscious. The world around him transformed in jerks and spasms; sometimes he was aware of figures towering on the edge of his vision, and sometimes he was alone.

His mind was too murky to form a coherent thought, let alone make sense of what was happening to him.

When it changed, he found himself lying in a cool bed staring up at a grey ceiling. More than that, he was naked: he wore neither armor nor breathing apparatus.

Rurut sat up and felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He might have cried out, for instantly an Unggoy dressed in robes was at his side.

"Peace, brother," she said. "You will be all right."

Rurut allowed her to ease him back down. "Where am I?"

"The Tiptam Healing House, just outside Vam."

"Balaho?"

"Yes."

It was true. He felt lighter, as he recalled from his homeworld, and as he rolled his head to get a better look he saw windows open to the outdoors and not a methane tent in sight.

But that wasn't right. The last thing he remembered was watching Oriné kill Bracktanus in a duel on Earth.

"How... how did I come here? Where is Commander 'Fulsam?"

"You mean your master? He was quite unusual for a Sangheili."

_My master?_ Yes, he considered Oriné to be his master, but for so long he had been "commander" or "Excellency." It was strange to hear their relationship summed up as a civilian term. _The war must be over, I suppose, but have we won? Where do the Unggoy stand?_

His attendant was still speaking. "Apparently he made quite a fuss over seeing you get proper treatment. Even with the Sangheili in such disarray, he commandeered a corvette to bring you here for treatment. Rumor has it he even came down to the surface with you and sought your tribe's matriarch, though for what I don't know."

Rurut barely remembered his matriarch. He had a vague sensation that she was his mother's sister, but beyond that a face was only barely visible through the haze of time. How had Oriné figured out who she was? Why had he desired to speak to her? Rurut had long suspected the Covenant kept some records of the Unggoy and where they came from, but it would have involved significant investigation...

There was so much he had to find out. What was the state of the planet? Were they in cooperation with the Sangheili, the Jiralhanae, or neither? Or both? Could he find his family? Would he even remember his family name?

Perhaps seeing his distress, the attendant—a Healer, he was now certain—put her clawed hand on his arm. "Relax, warrior. Your fight is over. Even if we had a call for soldiers now, your wound is too great. Fortune smiles on you."

He started to feel tired again. He sunk further into the bed.

"Oh," said the Healer, "your master left this for you."

She handed him a Lumidex. At his touch, a message appeared on the screen:

_Go your own way, Rurut Pipyat'Vam. You are free._

Rurut felt relief, and dimly realized he was weeping. He glanced at the Healer, who had graciously turned away. He couldn't help but take note of her, the confident way she held herself—so unlike the Unggoy he knew on the battlefield. She was clearly of birthing age. Maybe finding his family mattered less than starting his own.

Freedom. Yes.

He liked the sound of that.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I've been working on the _Negative Halo _series for seven years (nearly eight), which Halo fans will understand is an auspicious number. It's been, by all accounts, a great journey. I hope you all enjoyed reading the story as much as I did writing it.

Oriné's story is over, but there might be a little more modification. I've been working on a revision of the first _Negative Halo_ since 2009, and with Halo's ten-year anniversary coming up it might be as good a time as any to put it up. There'll be more details once it hits the airwaves (webwaves?) on Tuesday. Suffice to say, it won't just be a touch-up: expect a more fleshed-out telling of what Oriné was up to, as well as new storylines.

For now, though, I think I'm done. I've had a blast writing fan fiction here, but it's time I move onto greener, more profitable pastures. For the last year I've been splitting my attention between finishing up my fan fics and trying to get my own writing career off the ground, and now I think it's time to shift my focus entirely onto the latter. Don't worry, though: your Captain isn't abandoning you. I'll still be around to read, review, and talk, but any more writing I do will be extremely sporadic. And no more 300k+ word epics.

By the way, check out the poll on my profile page and vote on the question there (which may be contradictory to what I just said). I'm very interested in hearing people's opinions on it. [/cryptic suggestion]

**Question and Answer:**

Since the entire storyline is done, I'm opening the floor to questions. This is a no-holds-barred, anything-goes session: are you curious about some bit of Sangheili culture that I mentioned in passing but never touched on again? Did something not make sense and you're foaming at the mouth for a clear-cut explanation? Do you want to know some behind-the-scene detail about world building or character development? After all, there's nothing left to spoil.

Send me a private message or an e-mail and I'll respond personally, but I reserve the right to reproduce the question and my answer on my profile page, so that anybody who's curious can get the answer.

Ask away! I'm happy to answer any and all questions about _Negative Halo_ and all its companion stories.

**Acknowledgments and 7hanks:**

It's been a long road, and so there are several folks I want to acknowledge.

Top of the list is Khellendros for letting me use the character Balask 'Zakamee. I'm sorry that I killed him, dude, but you knew what this was.

Thanks to Jillybean and an REG Omega for letting me use a lot of their concepts regarding Sangheili culture, including the nadier and most of the name suffixes, among others. Also, their fics (_The Priestess and the Warrior_ by Jillybean, _Tomb of Glass _and _Halo 3: Collapse_ by an REG Omega) were considerable in inspiring me and making me extremely envious of their skill, further driving my writing.

A special shout-out to Atomic-Chocograph, aka IccaRa, aka ghost.713. Her story, _Vestige_, inspired the saitarelé (and I outright stole her D'amor to make the Dai-mor). She's also just awesome, and another author whose talents make me want to improve my own.

On a more personal note, I'd like to thank Tortuga for being a great brother and rendezvoushero for being a great pseudo-sister. They've helped me through funks, knots, and blocks, both in writing and outside it.

A great big thank you to Microsoft Studios and Bungie, for making one of the best games of all time. I'll certainly miss Bungie's contributions, but at the same time I'm looking forward to what 343 Industries will bring to the table.

Finally, thank _you_, dear reader. Without you sharing the journey, it wouldn't have been so great.


End file.
